


Always

by paupotter_4869



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Afterlife, Death Eaters, Dumbledore's Army, Grimmauld Place, Late Night Conversations, Marauders era, Muggle world, Multi, OotP, Second War with Voldemort, Werewolf, first wizarding war, minerva you queen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-30
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2018-05-09 23:20:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 57
Words: 214,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5559691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paupotter_4869/pseuds/paupotter_4869
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because this word means a world in our universe. A collection of some (happy) moments where it meant just as much. Mostly canon. Chronologically ordered, starting back at the Marauders Era, and some day hopefully reaching the Next Gen. Every chapter can be read individually.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> All credit to J. K. Rowling's books. Enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Young Remus, Peter, Sirius, James and Lily on September 1st, 1971, headed to King's Cross station with their families.

He groans as he tries to get his suitcase out of the car, but fails once again. Giving up, just not having the strength today, he steps away from the old vehicle and with careful, measured movements, making him look and feel like an old man, he sits at the passenger’s side and leans forward with a deep sigh, resting his elbows on his knees. His whole body is trembling because of the slight effort, and he’s panting as if he’d ran five miles. He moans again, hiding his face behind his hands, not believing his luck. 

When he received the Hogwarts letter four weeks ago he thought he was dreaming. Though he wanted so, desperately, he never believed for a second he’d actually receive it. The haze of the dream lasted for two whole weeks, enough time for him to get way too excited with the prospect of assisting Hogwarts, and to go buy all the equipments required, until he thought of checking the calendar. And he realized the full moon was at the night of the 4th. 

That is, three days from now, from the Start-of-Term feast. It’s too soon. He’s already starting to feel the effects of the wolf, three days before the transformation. He’s sore, he’s aching, he’s got a massive headache, he’s hungry for raw meat and all that escapes his mouth are grunts. It’s too dangerous. He shouldn’t be here. It’s been proven time and time again that werewolves are unstable for a community life--and now he’s planning to live in a Castle, away from home, surrounded by hundreds of students, even during the full moons? Has he lost his mind? And above all, the wolf is usually more stressed in a new environment, so this first transformation can be hell. He could pick up probably any reason for not going to Hogwarts, not yet. 

“Hey, Remus,” says his father’s voice, from some feet away. He shoots his head up immediately, never wanting his parents to see him suffering more than the enough from his transformations, but this time it’s too late for his caution. He sees the guilt eating them alive. 

“Are you OK?” demands his mother, approaching him with a slight smile, placing a hand on his cheek, caressing it warmly. 

“Yes, of course,” says Remus. His weak voice or his probably rather pale face, or both elements, don’t convince them, but they don’t say a word as Hope embraces Remus and leads him gently towards the station with Lyall following them, carrying Remus’ bags. 

“It’s going to be fine, Remus, you’ll see,” comforts Hope in a whisper, despite knowing no-one at the station will truly hear her and much less, understand her. “The Headmaster said on his letter that he had sorted it all out. Don’t worry about anything except recovering yourself.” 

“Well,” interjects Lyall, suddenly on Remus’ other side. “Don’t forget--” 

“I know, Dad,” replies Remus with a sigh and tired voice. “Always keep my distance so no-one will guess my secret. I know, I won’t slip up.” 

They’ve stopped in the middle of the station--not a very wise thing to do, being as crowded as usual--so Remus can look directly at his parents’ eyes making sure they understand he gets the seriousness of the matter and the need of silence and isolation from anyone in order to protect his biggest secret, staring back and forth at each other. Lyall drops the bags and approaches his son, who readies himself for yet another lecture about his condition. But instead of this, his father places a firm and reassuring hand on his shoulder and leans forward, so his eyes are at the same level. 

“I was going to say, don’t forget your grades, and to have as much fun as you can, you understand, son? Despite everything, this is going to be the best seven years of your life.” 

Noticing he has a lump in his throat, Remus can do nothing but nod before hug his parents tightly, for the last time, as his mother won’t be able to get to the platform 9 and 3/4. 

“I’m scared,” he whispers, in his last moment of honesty. 

Hope caresses his back, as she so usually does before and after a full moon, to calm down both of them, him and the wolf. “You’ll be OK, I promise, dear. And we’ll see you on the morning of the 5th, remember? Till then be the strong and brave young man we know you are.” 

“I’ll try,” concedes Remus. 

“Well, let’s find you a seat before you drop,” proposes Lyall as a joke, stroking Remus’ shoulder to reinforce his statement. 

Remus laughs and resumes walking towards the platform 9 and 3/4, knowing fully well that as soon as he finds himself in a partially horizontal position, with his head leaning in anywhere, he’ll doze off at once. And he better do so, he doesn’t want to bat an eye at Hogwarts and risk missing any small detail. He wouldn’t dare, when everything will be so precious and, like everything in his life, maybe caduceus. 

 

************************************

 

One mile away from King’s Cross Station, at one wizard house, the new student to attend to Hogwarts isn’t even ready to leave yet. 

“I’m missing you already.” 

“Me too, Claire,” sighs Peter as he accepts the third hug in a row from his cousin. “Can we go now, Dad? Please?” he begs, looking up, imploring, to his father. The man bursts into laughter, punching his son jokingly on the shoulder, with a hit not that much feeble. 

“Eager to go to Hogwarts, are we, Pete?”

“Who wouldn’t,” replies Aurelia, staring at her cousin with an envy look on her face. Despite she and her sister did went to Hogwarts already a decade ago, the both of them look as if they would kill anyone--being Peter that “anyone”, on this case--to assist Hogwarts once again. He believes it, though doesn’t share the same thoughts. 

“Promise you’ll write everything about Hogwarts. Every small, little, stupid detail that’s changed.” 

“I will,” assures Peter, uncertain if he’ll be able to keep the promise. How could he tell his family that once again in his life he’s got no friends and will be spending his academic years at Hogwarts alone, all by himself? he just hopes it won’t be too hard to lie through a letter, riddled with unimportant rubbish about the school, subjects, teachers and Hogwarts itself. 

“Have lots of fun,” adds Claire. “Oh, you’ll have to tell us if Prof. Minnie’s still doing that one trick at your first Transfiguration class.” 

“What trick?” 

“You’ll see,” replies his cousin with a big smirk, before bursting to laughing. 

“You just try not to fall on the lake. You wouldn’t make that good of a first impression.” 

“Oh, and remember every word of Dumbledore’s Start-of-Term speech. Is very, very important, and usually they ask about it in the final exams.” 

“Should I take notes, then?” Peter asks, almost preparing to faint. 

“You’re expected to remember it all.” 

“How--?” 

“Oh, calm down, Pete. You’ll do fine, right?” interjects yet another woman, making Clair and Aurelia finally shut up. Though the venom in her sentence and stare is that much stern that doesn’t help Peter calm down a bit. 

“Of course, Grandma, I’ll try to keep up my grades.” Given his academic records to this day, however, he doesn’t know how any of his family members believe this particular obvious lie. Probably it’s just that they’re granting him a wish--miracle--on his parting day. 

“Come on, we have to go,” says his father, checking the time. “You’ve got everything?” 

“Yes”, sighs Peter, thankful for the interruption and the excuse to leave the house. 

“Well, even if you’ve forgot anything, we can mail it back to you,” replies his grandmother, practical, following them to the entrance hall, as well as the couple of cousins. 

Among more kisses, hugs and tearly-eyes farewells, Peter can escape to the outside of the house and to the deserted street. He sees his suitcase lying on the street and finds it a particular good excuse to avoid his cousins, though it backfires in such an spectacular way he couldn’t even have planned it himself, as he can barely drag his suitcase. His father takes it from him, laughing once more at his weak muscles, though for once abstains himself from pointing it out. He just puts the suitcase on the rear seats, signals for Pete to get in and he sits at the driver’s place, Mrs. Pettigrew at his side, and after checking that everyone’s wearing their seatbelt, he rushes off towards King’s Cross Station. Peter knows the route and he barely notices the houses and streets passing by. He’s too concerned by everything lying ahead of him. His family doesn’t expect him till Christmas Hols, in four months time, but he somehow fears he’ll be back home way sooner than that. As in, this same night. He’s read all about the four founders of the House and he doesn’t think he fits into any of the Houses, and what if the Sorting Hat thinks so himself? Will they send him back home? Probably it’ll be even a great idea--even if he passes the test of the Sorting Hat, he expects to be a mediocre wizard, if nothing less. Probably he’ll just waste everybody’s time. He should just stay behind and save himself the humiliation. 

He can feel his father’s stare through the rear mirror, but he intentionally avoids his gaze, afraid of reading on his face his same thoughts. Or embarrassment, humiliation, or something worse. He doesn’t want to see it. 

“Pete,” murmurs his mother with a soft, caring voice. He certainly doesn’t want to hear it either, so he doesn’t even look at her. But he hears as her mother turns towards him and he can’t offend her like that. “We’re proud of you. No matter what happens, we are proud of you. Always remember that, OK?” 

So at least someone recognizes the path of stupidity and clumsiness he’s constantly leaving behind and that can be foreshadowed for tonight and the next seven years. Well, at least he’ll have a bed on his own bedroom to sleep at tonight. 

“Yes, Mom, Dad, I know. Thank you,” he whispers, without truly believing any of the words he’s uttering. 

 

************************************

 

Back again at King’s Cross Station, at the other end where the Lupin’s got in from, another wizard family is walking towards the entrance of the platform 9 and 3/4, with determined yet calm and slow steps, shoulders back and standing up tall, as if they were literally above every person at the station --and both parents certainly seem to think so. Their kids, however, stare mostly at the ground and avoid making eye contact with anybody, same as their parents, but for entirely different reasons. They pour their status at the A-list from every inch of their bodies, wether they like it or not. 

“Again filled with filthy Muggles,” remarks Walburga with venom. “You’d think that since year 993, Hogwarts could have another way of transportation.” 

“Indeed,” agrees Orion, clutching his hands in tight fists, as if to stop himself from hexing a couple of muggles. “Or at least, change the location of the entrance. It’s a disgrace having to come here every year.” 

“It’s safer this way,” retorts Sirius, tired since he was five with his parent’s stupidity. “A separate place just for wizards would attract too much attention. And you’ve seen the Ministry workers--” Impossible to miss them, even if they’re dressed as muggles--yet another disgrace, as Walburga has pointed out at every Ministry worker they’ve spot--when they stop and almost bow at them upon recognizing their name. 

“Don’t answer to me, young man,” interjects Walburga, turning around and facing her son. He shakes internally, waiting. Obviously Walburga wouldn’t physically hurt him--too muggle-ish for them--but she’s got her wand very close. Though it’s a far too public place for hexing him. And that’s the only thing that saves him from who knows what. 

“Let’s go,” orders Orion, grabbing Sirius wrist. He doesn’t struggle at first, but waits until the first sign of distraction, when absent-mindedly frees his hand and steps back, to walk side by side his brother, exchanging a look filled with meaning. Though Sirius’ eye suddenly catches something else, beyond Regulus, and she waves with a soft smile at the girl who was absolutely checking him up. 

And obviously, the gesture wasn’t missed by Walburga, who’s stopped again in the middle of the station, fury hidden behind a well-achieved neutral mask. 

“What do you think you’ve done, greeting an ordinary girl like that?” she shrieks. “You don’t even know her blood status!” _Her blood status_ , repeats Sirius to himself. Not her name, not her age, but Walburga’s first concern is about someone’s status. He obviously learnt years ago his family’s obsession with pure-bloods, but it doesn’t mean it doesn’t sick him to death every time this subject reappears. 

“She was pretty,” he justifies, shrugging. And for a second, he fears if he’s gone a step too further. Walburga wouldn’t actually mind if she had to hex to everyone at the Station. 

“Young man, do you want to turn back and go straight home? I assure you, you can be home-schooled and you’ll probably get more education than getting taught side by side with half-bloods and mudbloods.” 

Sirius knows better than to answer to that right now, but Walburga’s just put on the table his biggest fear and worst nightmare, spending a minute more than necessary in that horrible house, in that awful company. He couldn’t handle it; both him and Walburga know it, so the woman, pleased beyond anything imaginable, turns around and resumes her walking, with such an aristocratic air that everyone lets her through, and she gestures at Sirius and Regulus to keep up. They do so at once, not daring to infuriate her even more this evening, again staring only forward. 

At last they’re in front of the wall 9 and 3/4 and they stop. Walburga and Orion have made themselves crystal clear that they wouldn’t join Sirius there and meeting who knows what kind of company and new classmates. That means he’s going to receive his ultimate lection at a more public spot, sighs Sirius while turning towards Walburga and Orion. These people have never been his parents since he’s got a sense of ration, and probably he’ll never know what a caring family is. If it weren’t for his brother, Regulus, here present, he would have left years ago. Even without a wand, he could have found his way. Living at the streets would be more comforting than Grimmauld Place. 

“Now listen to me, you quit this whole rebellious teenage thing before you get on that train and arrive at Hogwarts. Don’t forget you’ll be known as the heir of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black and it falls into your shoulders--” 

“To always maintain our family’s good name and reputation and act upon it”, finishes Sirius, as he knows was expected from him. But internally he’s just counting the seconds till he can drop the Black façade, leave everything about his supposed family behind and just, be himself and free, away from Walburga’s paws and wrath. 

“That’s right. We’ll be expecting your owl from Slytherin.” _Please, not Slytherin._ Everything at view from him just screams of Slytherin, but his insides scream nothing but. He’d much rather be without a house and without a family, which he actually has asked for in the past--and what got him his first Cruciatus as a present for his seventh birthday--before he’d ever contemplate the idea of going to Slytherin. He’ll burn the Sorting Hat if he so even dares to propose it to him. 

He doesn’t have any goodbye word to address to Walburga and Orion, so he ostentatiously turns his back towards them as he grabs a hold of Regulus’ shoulder, who’s been avoiding his gaze for a few minutes now. 

“Come here,” he says, hugging him tightly. He feels how Regulus holds on almost desperately, not ready to let him go. And he fully understands. If he could just delay his departure to Hogwarts for one, miserable year. . . He’d be going with Regulus, he wouldn’t leave him behind, they’d be leaving that house together. He shouldn’t be left alone with Walburga and Orion. “Hold on tight, OK? Write me everyday, if you need to. I’ll do the same. This year will be over way sooner than you imagine.” 

“The house will be too much empty without you, Siri.” 

“I’ll miss you too so much, RAB,” whispers him, his voice hoarse. 

After a couple of minutes, obviously Walburga finds they’ve been stretching on this farewell for way too much and separates one from each other. She stands in front of Sirius, in the middle of them both. 

“Come on, go. Kreacher has left your luggage on the train already.” 

Sirius nods with his head and he only looks at Regulus while he slowly walks towards the metal wall separating the muggle platforms 9 and 10. The last thing he hears--or he thinks he hears--from his brother is a whispered “Good luck.” Well, he’s going to need it. No matter where he’s sent tonight, he’s going to need a good Felix Felicis. 

 

************************************

 

Back to the car park, another wizard family has just pulled over to an unusual empty space, and all three passengers get out hurriedly. Though the son doesn’t seem that much troubled as his parents, as he can’t erase a big smirk from his face, even while getting his luggage out of the boot. He seems eager to get his hands on his bags; which to a wizard young eyes’ is comprehensible when he catches his racing broomstick and has the time to mount it before his parents catch him. 

“Not HERE, James, for Merlin!” shrieks his father. “Do I have to chain your broomstick to your luggage with a Permanent Sticking Charm?” 

“Nope,” says the kid immediately, still haven’t learnt the countercouse of a Permanent Sticking Charm, as he dismounts his broom with a rather gloomy mood. But his father doesn’t let him keep with that for long. 

“Well, let’s go,” he orders, a bit exasperated, leading the way to the station. “We’re late, as usual. James, why is it--?” 

“We’re on time, Dad, relax,” replies the son, smiling broadly at the prospect of finally, at last, being on his way to Hogwarts. 

Even when he’s carrying all his luggage, after a couple of minutes of hurrying through the station his parents end up getting behind, struggling to catch their breath. At one point, his mother simply stops and leans forwards, hands on her knees. 

“I’m too old for these sort of things,” whispers Euphemia, grabbing her husband’s hand to make him stop too. 

“Nonsense, you’re as beautiful as ever," he disagrees. 

“One thing doesn’t exclude the other, dear.” 

James, who hadn’t realized he’d lost his parents on the way, goes backward and finds them at this precise instant. Leaving his luggage aside, he approaches his mother and caresses her shoulders. 

“Do you want to sit down, Mom?” he proposes, true concerned for her welfare. 

“I’m not an invalid either,” replies Euphemia. “But you really should go, you’ve got only five minutes till eleven o’clock.” 

“I don’t want to leave you.” 

“I’m fine, James, really. I’m just old,” replies his mother with a smile, caressing his hand in return. 

“You don’t look old to me,” says him. 

“And you’re too considerate towards your old parents,” laughs Euphemia. “Go, come on.” 

“You sure?” Despite his supposedly over confidence, James is just a little bit nervous to get to the Hogwarts Express, and he was expecting his parents to see him off. After all they wanted to be there too, being his only child’s first time on the train. But the age forbids from doing some things, he guesses. 

“Of course. Come here,” she orders, opening broadly her arms. Without a second of doubt James allows both of his parents to hug him and kiss him goodbye. His father’s kiss on his forehead, however, leads them to another kind of subject, one that wasn’t exactly on James’ mind today. 

“Dear Merlin, James, your hair. You’ll embarrass the maker of the Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion if you appear at Hogwarts like this.” 

“It’s fine, Dad, as usual,” replies James, stepping away from his father and checking his hair, as Fleamont has tried to tame it a little bit, getting even messier than before. 

“And as usual you couldn’t be more wrong,” laughs his father. “Have you put inside his suitcase the bottle of Potion I said?” he asks at his wife, who, despite everything, is smiling too. "He'll see eventually how he truly needs at least one bottle of that." 

“Yes, I did, earlier this morning,” confirms her. 

“And I’ve seen you and later proceeded to take it out,” replies James at once. 

"That's why I obliged Stiffy to put it inside your luggage again," interjects Euphemia, knowing her son well enough to predict and anticipate his actions. 

"Ten minutes before I'd find it again and, in case you tried to hide it for the third time inside my bag, I left it in Dad's cabinet bathroom. So it's definitely at home." 

“Merlin, James, you just can't--Why won't you accept a bit of--” exclaims his father, scolding him and laughing with him at the same time. They can barely get mad at him, though they probably should have told him off from time to time. They’ve just reached an age that some things, as long as they don’t cross a certain line, doesn’t matter anymore. 

“Fleamont,” interrupts Euphemia. “Before you praise James for something you really shouldn’t if we were somewhere close to responsible parents, there are other things your son could embarrass you with.” 

“Yes, indeed, sorry,” agrees him. 

He turns and looks at his son again with what he calls a stern and strict look, though if asked, James’d say that he hasn’t mastered--and probably won’t ever master it--the appropriate look of a father who’s trying to teach a lesson or prove a point. However, he grants him the attempt and listens to him, promising to himself, half-heartedly, to try to do as he asks. In this family, everyone has to grant something to make it work. 

“Son, you have to promise us you’ll behave, or at least try to behave, at Hogwarts. We won’t always be able to handle your misdemeanors and quite frankly, we’re reaching our limit here. Please, don’t make Minnie send us any letter in the first two weeks.” 

James sighs, knowing what they’re asking of him is a bit too much. But his own father, out of exasperation, has left a clear loophole on the rule, so he can take it. Two weeks is not that much of a time; and the rule implies a letter being sent to them, not any kind of misbehavior. He can work with that. Not like a man, of course, because a man wouldn't break his word, but at least he's taking it like the eleven-year-old troublemaker he is. 

“I promise I’ll try,” he sighs finally. And though it’s not exactly the compromise his parents were expecting of him, they know also this is the best deal they could have made given the place, time and situation, so they let him be too, to go and enjoy his life that's just starting, and James rushes to the entrance of the platform 9 and 3/4, barely containing his eagerness.

********************** 

 

_Crap._ Crap, damn, shit and a thousand times crap. 

Why didn’t she check the ticket before today? Why didn’t she come with Severus? Why didn’t Severus tell her? Why didn’t she ask anyone before it was too late? 

She’s frantically running up and down the station trying to find something which she already knows doesn’t exist, her mother and father following close by, carrying her truck, keeping their sanity just for her. Because she’s this close to giving up, kneel on the floor and start crying. Has this whole thing been a sick joke, from the very beginning? Was it just a hallucination? 

“Calm down, Lils. We’ll find it.” 

“How?!” shrieks the girl. “It’s not like we can ask a guard, can we?!” 

“Hey,” her father rests a warm hand on her shoulders and forces Lily to turn and look at him. “Just stop for a sec.”

“I’m going to miss my train!” 

“Just stop for a sec,” repeats her father. “Take a deep breath and try to relax.” 

This is what her parents always told Lily and Tuney to do whenever they felt anxious--because of an exam, a break-up, or when their dog was hit and died on the street--to get them to relax. Lily nods, closes her eyes and breathes slowly, inhaling by the nose, exhaling through the mouth, and then counts to twenty. She’s just lost half a minute but at least she won’t suffer a panic attack right there. 

“That’s better,” approves her mother. “Now, take your time and think again. Didn’t it say anything about how to access the platform on your letter?” 

“No, just the number and the departure time,” repeats Lily, doing her best to keep calm. 

“And are you sure Severus didn’t tell you either?” 

“You know what, Mom, as a matter of fact he did--we’ve just been wasting a whole hour for the fun of it.” 

“Lils,” her father reprimands her mildly, but the scolding doesn’t go any further because the poor girl isn’t the only one who’s desperate in here today. 

“I’m sorry, Mom,” Lily apologizes without opening her eyes. “It’s just--” 

“We know,” interjects her mother, caressing Lily’s cheek with tender. The whole morning’s been a disaster, from the moment they woke up and Lils and Tuney had their last quarrel. Now, they’re beginning to believe everything’s been for nothing, that Severus was just lying to Lily--and that Magic is no more than an illusion sowed in their minds, somehow. They cannot say such words in front of Lily, but they fear she’s coming to the same realization they are, and the couple just doesn’t know how can they deal with it, help Lily and return home. 

“Perhaps we could go to the car,” suggest her father very slowly, assessing how the words affect Lily, “and think of what we can do. Perhaps contacting the School. . .” 

“Perhaps driving home and forgetting all about it is a better idea,” replies Lily, her eyes still closed. “Goddammit,” she swears as she dries a tear falling from her eyes. The past few years have been nothing but a charade, the whole school supplies was nothing but a mind trick--and the only thing it all brought was her fighting with Tuney, when they once thought they’d be best siblings for life. If she could go back in time. . . 

“No, Lily, I wasn’t going to say--” 

“But I am saying it,” interjects the girl. “Let’s go home. Please. Maybe they can accept be back at the School.” 

Her mother hugs her by the shoulders and squeezes her tight for some seconds, praising Lily for her maturity while facing such a crossroad. The real breakdown might come around at home, or maybe at the car, but she’s sparing them all a tantrum right at King’s Cross station. On the other hand, her father kisses her temple and, without releasing Lily’s hands, kneels to grab her cart again. 

“Excuse me,” says a male voice behind them, making the family stop and turn around--a teenage boy, taller than Lily’s father and with a shy smile on his lips. He can tell he’s overstepping, the glares he gets from the couple and the tears in the girl’s eyes are more than enough evidence, but still he had to speak up before it was too late and they made the wrong choice. 

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t help but notice your trunk,” he says, addressing Lily directly. “Hogwarts?” 

Lily’s heart literally skips a beat at that. She steps forwards the boy, in spite of her parents trying to stop her, in case this just means the ultimate breakdown for the girl. 

“Yes,” she breathes out. “D’you know about it?” 

“I’m a Hufflepuff,” says the boy, removing part of his coat so Lily can see the yellow badge on his chest. 

“That your surname?” asks Lily’s father, prompting chuckles from everyone and all. 

“No, that’s one of Hogwart’s Houses,” explains Lily without looking at his father. “Can you please tell me how to access Platform 9 and 3/4? Please?” 

The boy can’t help but chuckle upon Lily’s desperation. 

“Thought there was something going on,” he nods. “Yep, let’s go, come on, or we’ll be late.” 

He kneels to grab Lily’s trunk and points towards the direction they must follow, that is, the platforms 9 and 10, which makes Lily and her parents frown. They’ve searched every inch of those platforms for more than an hour straight and found nothing out of the ordinary. 

The boy stops when he sees the whole entourage following him. 

“I’m sorry, but only wizards can access the Platform,” he explains, his voice truly apologetic as he stares at Mr. and Mrs. Evans. “You want to say goodbye now. And--fast, too.” 

Lily doesn’t even think twice before turning around, hugging her parents and kissing their cheeks all in the span of a couple of seconds, without giving them much of a chance at properly giving her a farewell. Which suit her fine--she’s about to start crying at any time, that’s how nervous she’s been all morning. 

“Love you. I’ll write home soon. Take care. Goodbye!” she bids farewell before following the Hufflepuff boy. 

She’s not so certain a few seconds later, when the boy tells her she needs to run into a wall in order to access the Platform, though. 

“How many times have you done this?” she asks, eyeing the brick wall with fear. 

“So many,” promises the boy, “and I’m alive and well.” 

“You sure you’re not in a comma and we’re not dreaming all of this?” she protests. 

“Come on, we don’t have much time. Together?” suggests the boy, raising one hand. 

Shakily, Lily takes it, grabbing a hold of her cart as well. When the boy starts running she follows his suit and after a couple of strides she closes her eyes. This can’t be any more stupid than trying to find a Platform outside the station--or believing that Magic exists. Perhaps a concussion will serve her right and prove that everything about Hogwarts is nothing but a damn lie. 

“This is it,” says the boy all of a sudden. 

Lily opens her eyes in fright. They haven’t stumbled against the wall, for one--and as a matter of fact they’ve stepped into a side of the Station she’d never seen before. The big sign hanging from the ceiling confirms her that she’s finally accessed Platform 9 and 3/4. 

“Right, this is where I leave you,” says the boy. “Guess we’ll see each other ‘round School. Good luck!” 

“Bye,” stutters Lily long after the boy has vanished. She’s still mesmerized by the magnificent train waiting on the tracks, the steaming machine, the gold and black and red colors. It’s like she’s stepped into another era. Another world. Welcome to Hogwarts. 

At some point she sees Severus in the crowd and her dazzlement vanishes, replaced by anger. 

“Sev!” she yells. 

“Lils! I thought you weren’t going to make it. Where were you?” 

“Trying to find this forsaken Platform!” she shrieks. “You couldn’t have told me I had to run into a wall?” 

Severus freezes, mid-gesture of carrying Lily’s bags down to the last carriage. 

“Sorry. It slipped my mind,” he apologizes. 

“What makes wizards think Muggleborns will ever consider getting a concussion for slamming into a brick wall?” resumes Lily, all her nervousness and anxiety leaving her system in the means of anger. “Is this your way of choosing the students who’re apt for the School?” 

“No, it is not, Lily--it’s just the way things have always been,” whispers Severus, grabbing her hand to take her inside of the train, looking for a compartment. 

“Well, perhaps things should change! Just a line on the acceptance letter would have made all the difference!” 

“Talk with the Headmaster about it,” suggests Sev with the hint of a smile. 

“You can bet I will,” promises Lily as she sinks into the sofa, arms crossed, but incredibly relieved, more than she can actually tell. To learn that the past months, quarrel with Tuney included, had been a lie would have been a tough call to process. She couldn’t be happier to find out that Hogwarts actually exists and that she’s been accepted there--and she hasn’t even set foot in the School grounds. Finally, she lets herself relax in the compartment.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On her first year, Lily decides to spend the Christmas Holidays back home

Less than one fifth of the student population decides not to spend their Christmas Holidays at Hogwarts, Lily’s learnt these past few days. She can understand why, of course: the fields and mountains are so gorgeous covered in white snow, broken by a dark-clouded sky and the occasional owl flying from and to Hogwarts, that she cannot even begin to describe it. Plus, it was quite nice and funny to see all the Staff members, ghosts and knights working together in order to decorate the Castle and the school grounds. Well, on Peeves’ case, his input was to destroy all the efforts twice so the Staff members had to restart the process, until Sirius and Potter put their shenanigans to good use and distracted the ghost with some prank outdoors. 

All in all, Lily’s a bit sad that she won’t get to spend the Holidays at Hogwarts. But there’s no way she could have explained her parents and sisters why she didn’t want to come back. Even if the real reason had nothing to do with the School and everything that she’ll miss while being away. 

Of course, one of the other students who happened to go back home for the holidays had to be Potter--she still doesn’t know if he decided he was going back home when he heard she was taking the train too, because he’s honestly been a bother all the way from Hogwarts. Fortunately she could find an empty compartment and thanks to the Locking Spell Remus taught her right before leaving, she could enjoy most of the trip on her own. That was, until James somehow showed up outside her window, begging for her to let him in. She solved the situation by shutting the curtains, setting up a Silencing Charm and she continued her reading. 

Can’t do anything about meeting the boy outside of the train, on the platform, though. 

“Let me help you with that,” says James, trying to take her suitcase. 

“I don’t need a caddie, thank you very much. And I won’t give you any chance to look through my stuff,” scowls Lily, dashing forwards and not even closing her eyes when she runs through the column that grants her access to the Muggle side of the station. James follows her suit incredibly fast, considering he had to take his broomstick too. 

“What’s a caddie?” asks the boy, panting slightly to keep up with her. 

“Beats me,” replies Lily. “Why’re you following me?” 

“To make sure you don’t get lost?” 

Lily rolls her eyes. “Statistically you’re more likely to get lost in here that I am. For I have taken a dozen trains from Kings’ Cross station and you hadn’t stepped in here before September 1st.” 

“How’d you know that?” 

“Might surprise you, Potter, but I listen when people talk. Something you still haven’t mastered, to a lot of people’s dismay.” 

“Why, Evans, I didn’t know the things I did interested you so much.” 

“Don’t flatter yourself, Potter--they don’t, I can promise you. And why are you still following me?” she demands, raising her voice. She stops in the middle of the station, not such a wise thing to do considering the amount of passengers coming and going, and turns to face James with that expression he knows so well already, her eyebrows frowned and that vein popping up. 

“So _I_ don’t get lost?” James dares to whisper, which only gets another roll of eyes from Lily, as she turns around and resumes her walk--or jogging. “And have you noticed, oh wise woman, that there’s only one way out of the station?” 

“Well, you don’t have to come with me, you know that?” 

James can’t come up with a good response in time--that’s a win for her, she reckons tilting her head. But then she shakes her head from side to side. When did things for her become like this, fighting Potter time and time again? 

“So, you have any plans, Evans?” 

“Does it look like I’m taking dancing lessons by any chance?” she scowls. “I’m spending Christmas with my family--what are you going to do? Never mind that, I really don’t want to know,” she reflects before James can put in a single word. 

They finally get out of the station and stop for a second to catch their breath--in an attempt to get away from James as soon as humanly possible, Lily has almost ran across the station. They look around, panting slightly, without seeing yet any familiar faces. And that gives Potter an excellent opportunity to open his mouth. 

“I’m also spending the Christmases with my folks,” he says. “With Mum and Dad. It’s a bit of a downfall, really--usually by half past nine they’re already asleep. Even on New Year’s Eve.” 

“Potter, if you’re waiting for an invitation, you couldn’t possibly be more wrong,” burst Lily, keeping a hold tight to her bags and her eyes straight, without even turning towards the boy. 

By her side, he bursts out laughing. “No, of course I didn’t mean it like that. I wouldn’t change it for anything.” 

“Then don’t complain,” suggests Lily. “Finally.” 

She’s finally seen a familiar face in the midst of the crowd: her father’s coming to meet her as fast as he can through the busy street and he even tries to cross a red light, but stops when a car almost runs him over. Lily forces a big smile on her lips. She’d expected more of a welcoming committee, to be honest. This is the first occasion she’s spent so much time away from home, excluding that summer camp when she was eight, and that was only three weeks. She would have liked to see her Mom and sister there too--but she knows why her father’s come all alone. 

“That your old man, Evans?” asks James. 

Lily had almost forgotten about him, what with seeing her Dad. She rolls her eyes again, she hopes for the last time today. 

“People don’t usually talk like that while referring to one’s parents,” she instructs. 

“Hey, I know, Evans,” scowls James. 

He’s dropped his bags on the floor and steps forward. She doesn’t read his intentions in time and can’t stop him before he does something stupid, which he so obviously does: 

“Good morning, Mr. Evans. Let me introduce myself: I’m James Potter, one of your daughter’s classmates. It’s very nice to meet you, sir.” 

Mr. Evans looks absolutely dumbfounded while he shakes James’s hand. His formality and good manners have shocked Lily’s father, which only prompts her to roll her eyes again. Why can’t Potter show such manners all the time and not only when he’s trying to impress an adult? 

“He’s a Gryffindor, like me,” she tries to explain, although there’s no possible way of solving the situation. “Anyhow, hello, Dad.” 

“Hello, Lils,” says him, leaning forwards to kiss her on the cheeks, but then he turns towards James again--still doesn’t hate him as much as Lily does. “You spending the Christmases with your parents too?” 

“Yes, sir,” nods James. 

“We should get going,” says Lily, although they’re not in any particular rush. Her father gets the hint alright, taking Lily’s bags from her and pointing towards the car. But as he shakes hands with James one last time, Lily can’t find the strength to take a single step. 

“Will your parents be picking you up?” she asks. They’ve been standing there for the good part of ten minutes and no-one’s showed up for James. 

“No, not really,” replies James. “Told them to stay at home, the trip would just exhaust both of them.” 

“Oh, they aren’t well?” asks Mr. Evans, while Lily just frowns at James. This is the first time in three months James has actually shown that he cares for something else apart from himself and his hair. And it’s--moving. And also shocking. 

“Well, they’re as good as it gets, really--can’t complain much. That’s what you get when you’re seventy,” chuckles James, nonchalant, his hands on his trouser’s pockets. 

“Seventy?” Mr. Evans almost chokes upon that number. “You just said grandparents, didn’t you?” 

“No, they’re my parents, sir,” says James, a bit confused now, exchanging a panicked look with Evans while she shakes her head. He still doesn’t understand the differences between the Wizardry World and the Muggle one. 

“How many siblings do you have?” Mr. Evans proceeds. 

“Dad, I don’t really think James has got time for this interrogation,” Lily tries to save James, but per usual, he’s not listening when he most certainly should. 

“As a matter of fact, I’m an only child, sir,” he answers. 

“There you have it,” scowls Lily, knowing she won’t be able to explain anything to her father now. “Can we please go, Dad? Right now, please?” 

“Yes, okay, okay,” nods Mr. Evans, stressed out by everything. “Let’s go. Nice to meet you, James.” 

“Likewise, Mr. Evans,” James corresponds, shaking hands once more. 

He steps to one side to give some room to Lily and her father and then stands there on the sidewalk as they get away. While Lily looks above her shoulder, above her father’s arm around her back, just out of curiosity, she sees James picking up his bags, spin and headed for the opposite side of the station. 

No one has come to pick him up. Could he have left any time he wanted? Did he stay with her to annoy her as long as possible or was he actually interested in staying with her and keeping up the conversation? 

She doesn’t have the time to get answers for her questions--because the moment they step into the car, her father’s got some questions of his own. 

“Seventy? An only child?” he shrieks. 

Lily just closes her eyes and rests her head on the window. 

“Dad, things work differently than in our world. Yes, seventy is old, but they’ve got a lifespan longer than ours, so it’s not that uncommon, trust me. And I really don’t want to talk about James anymore.” 

“Why’s that? You guys had a fight?” asks her father, worried all of a sudden--the subject about James’s family all but forgotten already, being Lily now his only concern. 

“You could say that,” reckons Lily, tilting her head. “Anyway, Dad, it’s great to be back. I’ve missed you all so much.” 

“Not nearly as much as we did, Lils,” promises her father. 

“That remains to be seen,” says Lily and she realizes that’s not something she usually would have said to her father. Seems that spending so much time bickering with and challenging James has taken a toll on her. “Come on, let’s go, I’m dying to see Mom and Tuney.” 

“Well, we can’t have that, can we?” chuckles her father, turning the key on the engine and starting off. “So, did you have a good trip? You look cold, honey.” 

“It was cold in the train,” she confesses. 

“You’re going to tell me they don’t have heaters in the Wizardry World?” 

Lily chuckles and starts what could possibly be a very long conversation. As a matter of fact, she’s still explaining minor details about Hogwarts and the dorms, the classes, her subjects and the teachers when her fathers pulls over, forty-three minutes later, at their house. Lily’s barely stepped outside of the vehicle when her mother greets her with a big, warm, long hug. 

“Oh, I’ve missed you!” she sobs over and over. “Is it possible you’re taller now? And you’re so thin! You haven’t been eaten properly, have you?” 

“Mom, I promise you, I’ve been eating a lot. You can’t use that as an excuse to stuff me up like a turkey,” chuckles Lily, resting a hand on her stomach. 

“You sound as if you don’t like my turkey!” 

“Mom, I love your turkey. Only, I’m still eleven, you can’t expect me to finish a whole turkey on my own.” 

“Come on, stop complaining and get inside,” scowls her mother, dragging her towards the house. “Wouldn’t want to catch a cold on your holidays. You’ve got her bags, Ralph?” 

“Yes, I’ve got them,” nods Mr. Evans, following mother and daughter inside. 

Lily lets herself be dragged into the house, feelings as nervous and self-conscious as if she were entering the house of Hansel and Gretle’s witch or something similar. It’s twice now that Tuney’s disappointed her: she’d thought Tuney would at least welcome her home. 

As they step into the hall, Lily stops to turn around and take a good look at the house. This is also the first time she hasn’t participated in the decoration of her home for Christmas, when she used to run up and down the place and placing whatever she wanted, wherever she wanted. It’s still incredibly beautiful and a sting of remorse and envy hits her right in the heart, seeing the Christmas tree, the socks from the cupboard, the lights outside, the nativity scene, the smell of cookies from the kitchen. She feels like she shouldn’t have to miss it all. 

“And the prodigal daughter returns,” says a cold voice all of a sudden. 

Lily turns around and spots, up there in the stairs, Tuney, looking down on her. She takes off her scarf in spite of feeling colder than ever before; Tuney’s literally piercing down on her. It’s plain to see that their relationship hasn’t improved in the past three months, even though Lily’s tried to write Tuney to no response, even though she’s tried to talk to the Headmaster concerning Tuney. 

“Hello, Tuney,” she says in a whisper, approaching the staircase. “Merry Christmas.” 

“I thought you’d have abandoned us by now,” says Petunia, her voice as cold as ice. 

“Please, I would never abandon you,” begs Lily. “You’re my family, I wanted to spend Christmases with you all.” 

“I’m surprised you still consider us your family.” 

“Tuney!” her mother reprimands her in a whisper. Now Lily can see that her parents haven’t had it easy the past few months, dealing with Petunia, jelous and resentful as she was the minute Lily left for Kings’ Cross Station. 

“Of course I consider you my family, _you are!_ ” exclaims Lily, holding to the banister, in an attempt to climb the first step. Tuney taking a step backwards freezes her on the spot. 

“You should have stayed with the rest of your freak friends, Lily.” 

“Tuney!” reprimands their father. But before he can put in another word, Petunia disappears from the stairs and she slams the door of her bedroom. 

Lily stays their on the ground floor, staring blankly at the spot Tuney was a few seconds ago, tears filling her eyes. Hadn’t thought the situation was that bad. Sure, not receiving any news from her sister in three months, not seeing her at the station or welcoming her outside of the house should have given her a hint, but she thought she could patch things up, make things better, if she got a chance to talk to Tuney. She’s not even giving her the opportunity. 

Her mother squeezes her shoulders tightly and then takes her coat. 

“It’s going to be alright, sweetie,” she promises, kissing Lily on the forehead. 

“No, it’s not,” whimpers Lily. “It’s never going to be like it was before.” 

“That’s life, Lils, honey,” whispers her father, hugging her by the shoulders. “You cannot go back. You simply move forward. Remember, you cannot go back and change the beginning, but you can start where you are and change the ending.” 

Lily chuckles upon that--it’s a quote her father’s mentioned quite a few times ever since things between her and Tuney went berserk. And he’s completely right, she knows that. Of course they should try to move forward and fix things. Their lives will never be the same--they changed upside down when she met Severus and later received that letter from Hogwarts. She’s a witch, Tuney is not--that’s something that can’t be unturned, no matter how much both of them wish to. 

She sighs and wipes the tears off her eyes. She’ll have another shot at Tuney, she knows that--they’ll live in the same house for the next few days, it’ll be unavoidable to speak to each other. 

Her parents seem to notice her change in attitude. 

“That’s right, dry your eyes,” nods her mother, handing her a handkerchief. 

“There’s our Lily,” approves her father, leaning in to be eye-level with her. “Hadn’t seen her yet, behind all that sorrow.” 

“I’m sorry, Dad, Mum,” chuckles Lily. 

“Don’t be sorry and let’s get to work,” suggests her mother, squeezing her shoulders, “we’ve got some cookies to make. Mr. Blackbourne will be expecting us tomorrow morning, won’t he?” 

“Yes, I suspect he will,” nods Lily. 

“Go wash your hands, I’ll be waiting for you in the kitchen. I’m sure Tuney will join us too.” 

Lily nods once more, stuffs her mother’s napkin deep in her dress’ pocket and dashes towards the downstairs bathroom. When she comes out again, her father’s taken upstairs all of her bags and her mother’s waiting for her in the kitchen, an apron set aside for her, already preparing the dough. Lily ties the apron on her back and immediately sets off giving a hand to her mother--she doesn’t need to be told what to do, she’s got years of experience already. 

For Christmases the four of them always take the time to make dozens of cookies, for them and also for the neighbors, so on Christmas morning they visit the neighbors and offer their treats. Mr. Blackbourne, who lives two houses down, particularly enjoys their visits--his wife died before the Evans moved in and they’ve known of no family members ever visiting the man. 

A little while later Lily’s father enters the kitchen, his shirt’s sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He grabs the apron that actually belongs to Tuney, marked with hundreds of drawings by color stackers made by Tuney and Lils, just like the one who belongs to Lily. The aprons once upon a time were red, but Tuney and Lily made so many experiments in the kitchen when they were little that the aprons were stained without possibility of mending--not that anyone cared about it. Now, Lily suspects their experiments are long over. 

She’s been distracted from her work, so much that she barely notices how her father stucks one finger on the dough and tastes it, licking his finger clean to prove how good it was. 

“Hey! It’s supposed to be eaten later!” complains Lily. 

“Well, you seemed to be done already,” chuckles her father. 

“I was temporarily distracted.” 

“Uh-uh, can’t allow to be distracted while cooking when your father’s in the kitchen,” her mother mildly reprimands her--an advice Lily should have learnt a little bit sooner, really. 

Chuckling a bit more, her father sets another bowl by her side and starts preparing more dough--there is never too much. 

“So, Lils, tell us about School,” suggests her mother then. 

“Yes, how about your classmates? I’ve already met one of them but--” 

“When was that?” demands her mother, now so interested in the conversation that she completely forgets about the tray of cookies in the oven. Even if they burn, they’ve got enough dough to make a dozen more trays. 

“Earlier, in the station,” says Ralf. 

“He’s just a classmate, Mum,” promises Lily with a roll of her eyes upon her excitement and enthusiasm--wouldn’t want to engage into a conversation about Potter even while being away from Hogwarts, at her parent’s. “And we hate each other, so please don’t make any wedding plans just yet.” 

“What do you mean, you hate each other?” exclaims her father. “He seemed like a nice enough fella.” 

“He seemed,” Lily points out. 

“But how could anyone hate my lovely daughter?” exclaims her mother. She stops by the countertop and forced Lily to look at her in case she notices Lily lying--she would caress her red hair if she hadn’t her hands dirty. “That’s not humanly possible.” 

“You might be surprised,” chuckles Lily, keeping her eyes low--she won’t cry, not now, not in front of her parents, not because of that stupid Potter boy. “We haven’t seen eye to eye, not ever. Anyway, Mom, please, I don’t want to talk about him. Not now, not ever.” 

“Well, okay, tell us about your other classmates, then,” suggests her mother, a bit crestfallen, but she can tell her daughter wanted to put a final end to the conversation about that boy. “Are they being nice to you? Are there more people like you?” 

“Yes, most of my classmates are really nice, Mom, it’s great. And if you mean there are more Muggleborn at Hogwarts, the answer’s yes, lots, Mom, so I’m not all alone lost who knows where in Scotland. Really, stop worrying,” explains Lily. 

For the next few minutes, the conversation about Hogwarts lingers, resuming some of the stuff she was explaining earlier to her Dad, on the car. Lily tells her parents about her classmates, about those Muggleborns who were just as lost as she was for the first few days and still are from time to time, about her subjects, about her teachers, about some of the Spells and interesting stuff she’s learnt, about the Castle itself and all the dangers it represents for newbies like her, Muggleborn or not; about the food, about the School grounds, about the mail, and any other tiny, unimportant detail she can think about. She’s not entirely certain if she can actually tell them about everything concerning Hogwarts and the Wizardry World, what with the Secrecy Decree Severus told her about, but she doesn’t really give a damn. Her parents can keep a secret, specially with Tuney there who doesn’t want to know anything about Hogwarts and Magic, so there’s no real danger for them, or her either. 

“Wow, you seem to love it up there,” says a voice all of a sudden. 

Lily looks up from the mould she was filling with dough to find Tuney resting against the doorframe, arms crossed. She doesn’t really know for how long her sister has been staying there--she’s been too caught up with everything she was saying. 

“Tuney, there you are,” says their mother. “Come and help me, come on, we’ve still got more trays to do.” 

Only because her mother’s directly instructed her to, Tuney steps into the kitchen and reaches for one of the aprons--when she realizes there’re no left, except for Lily’s, and she walks by the hanger. 

“Take this one,” says Lily, undoing the knot on her back to hand Tuney her apron. 

“No need,” scowls Tuney as she passes behind her on her way to reach Mom and the oven and take out another tray. 

As everyone resumes their chores on the process of making cookies, silence slowly falls upon the room, a strange atmosphere hovering the air. Lily takes a very deep breath before addressing Tuney directly--preparing for what her answer could be. 

“So, how was school this semester?” she asks. “Have there been changes in the Staff?” 

Maybe their father had a talk with Tuney before he came downstairs, maybe Tuney is actually tired of holding a grudge against her, but this time Tuney answers her, a short and brief sentence, but that’s something. Question after question, enquiring about every little detail concerning the School they used to attend up until this academic year, Lily manages to get a whole lot of information out of Tuney and what she’s missed in the past three months--and also, with the collaboration of her parents, they manage not to fall dead silent again. 

As soon as all the cookies have been made, more than an hour later, however, Tuney vanishes from the kitchen without looking back or saying a single word. 

“Tuney!” yells their father after her. He takes off his apron too and follows her out of the kitchen, exchanging one worried look with Lily and her mother. 

_It’s going to be one hell of a Christmas,_ Lily regrets, staring down at the cookies they’ve just made, angered and infuriated. This used to be such a happy tradition for the first ten years of her life--they looked forward it every year, almost as much as the presents. Now it’s something else that brings sorrow and remorse instead of the joy it once brought. 

Sighing deeply in order to keep the tears at bay, keeping her head low just in case some drop from her eyes, Lily’s only thought is that if she could work until her eyes drop and she feel asleep right there in the kitchen, sparing her from more unsuccessful, awkward and exhausting exchanges with Tuney, she would.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remus, Pete, James and Siri, on the Hogwarts Express on September 1st, 1972, goofing around and just being Marauders. Lily Evans and Severus Snape appear, including James's latest shameful scheme to get a date with Evans.

None of the four boys could look happier by bidding farewell to their parents at the Platform 9 and 3/4. With time to spare they find themselves a compartment, settle in, lounge mindlessly on the cushioned benches, and fish out an irresponsible number of candies, sweets, chocolates and Muggle drinks while they wait eagerly for the Hogwarts Express to leave the station. 

Their relatives already forgotten, the first topic of conversation is, naturally, their holidays. Remus talks briefly about the journey with his parents to France, where they loved it so much that his relatives are leaving the country again during the first semester--though he doesn’t mention the aim of the journey. 

“Sirius? How was yours?” asks Peter then. 

“Fine,” replies the man sullenly. His succinct, monosyllabic answer, plus his exhausted composure given it’s only five past eleven in the morning, convinces the three of them that something really wrong is going on with the boys. But it also indicates James that they should just disregard it, just as they’re doing with Remus for the past year, and his brief explanation of his summer holidays. 

“How about you, Peter?” he asks, obviously forced, without removing his eyes from Sirius’ face, while he avoids everybody’s glaze. “You said in your letters you spent two whole weeks in Dublin?” 

“Oh, yeah,” says the boy, his mouth full. He takes his time swallowing and then starts babbling on and on about his summer holidays, the way he usually talks when he’s nervous--clearly trying to compensate for Sirius’ strange answer and way of being since they’ve met on the platform. 

Thanks to Peter’s nonchalant chatter, the gloomy mood disappears and things slowly fall back into place--after twenty minutes of non-stop gibberish, Sirius finally scowls, jumping from his seat, begging for Peter to shut up. They all burst out laughing at Peter’s obvious forced attempt at soothing Sirius and at his stupid dramatic act to make him stop. And this, or maybe the distance between them and London and their relatives, just sets the perfect atmosphere for another incredible year of mischiefs at Hogwarts. 

Within minutes all worries are forgotten and it’s just the four twelve-year-old brats again, arrogant, nervous, witty, pranksters, chatterboxes, definitely-up-to-no-good kids, joking, laughing out loud, talking about stupid things, goofing around, insulting each other playfully and, well, behaving like children; and despite the delicatessen Peter and Remus’ve brought in with them, enough for more than six people, they buy a fair amount of sweets from the witch with the tea trolley. 

All of a sudden the compartment’s door open rather rudely, catching them all cracking up on the seats and the floor due to some hilarious joke. Funniest thing is--they couldn’t point out exactly what was the joke about or who’d said it. Either way, when they recognize the angry red-headed young woman with green eyes looking down at them all, joined of course by the ever-present short, pale face, greasy hair, kid, the four boys try to maintain their composure and at least show the maturity of a five-year-old. Endeavoring task when James’s jumped right on his feet and sat down on the bench in an attempt to look sophisticated and pretend he wasn’t crawling on the floor seconds early. 

Beyond the amusement for Lily’s appearance, all James can think of is thanking Sirius and Remus for their manners. 

“Evans,” says the first one politely, leaning in to try to kiss Lily’s hand. 

“Get off me,” she scowls, stepping away. Sirius does his best not to look hurt as he finds himself a seat, whereas James has to contain his content at Lily not accepting his kiss. 

Only Remus stands in the compartment and makes an effort to have a polite conversation with the girl. 

“Hope you had a pleasant summer, Lily?” he asks, without even trying to deny he’s only addressing to her. 

“I did, thanks for asking. Spent some quality time with my friends,” she says, looking sideways at Severus to indicate he’s part of the conversation as well. Not that it makes a difference with the four boys inside the compartment. 

“Glad to hear that,” confesses Remus. “Studied much?”

“Please, I said I had a great summer, for Christ’s sake,” she scoffs. “Or I did up until this point.” 

Whether it is for manners or to conceal James’s flat-out shameful jump to aid Lily, the four boys stand up at once, offering their help. 

“The thing is,” she tries to explain, just a little bit surprised and overwhelmed, “every other compartment is packed. It seems this is the emptiest of them all--I don’t understand, really. Last year we were more comfortable, weren’t we?” she asks as an afterthought, looking at Severus, wanting to include him in the conversation as well. “As if there weren’t so many students.” 

“No, it seemed we managed alright, last year,” confirms the boy. 

“Maybe there was an extraordinarily baby boom on the ’61,” ponders Sirius under his breath. No-one bothers to answer him in any way. 

“Do you want to stay here the rest of the trip?” suggests Peter at once. 

Though the invitation sounds honest, Lily looks at the four of them in turn, ending up with James, staring at him for some long seconds. The boy looks way too innocent and hasn’t even said a word until now. “Is this your doing, Potter?" she asks very slowly, suspicious, eyes mid-closed. 

“Excuse you?” demands Sirius, outraged, stepping in between Lily and James. 

“What is my doing?” asks James, apparently blind to the dangers of the situation. 

“Me and Sev not finding any other compartment? No-one, absolutely no-one in the whole train but you four, being kind enough as to suggest to share theirs?” she explains exasperated. 

“Oh, come on,” scoffs James, waving the idea with his hand. “Are you truly suggesting--?” 

“Not suggesting, only accusing,” interjects Lily coldly. 

“Please, do you really think I’d bribe all the students on the Hogwarts Express on our trip to school so you’d have no other choice than share this compartment with us?” scoffs James incredulous. But as he talked, Sirius, Remus and even Peter have just closed their eyes solemnly and refused to help his friend--because that’s exactly what he did. 

Lily doesn’t say a word, glaring at James without blinking, her eyes loathsome, breathing in deeply to calm down. The compartment’s temperature has dropped a dozen degrees; and if it were possible, James’d be dead due to spontaneous combustion. Or he’d have been dead since september 1st last year. 

“It was just a joke, I didn’t do anything of that sort,” chuckles James nervously. “Come on, how can you really think I’d do such a thing? It’s precocious!” 

His stupidity is the only thing that makes Lily snap out of it--she scowls loudly and rolls her eyes. “Dear Lord,” she scoffs, “shut up so you’ll stop sounding even stupider than you look. The word you’re looking for is presumptuous, not precocious, you bloody ignorant. Saying difficult words trying to look cooler or smarter only proves how arrogant and imbecile you are, Potter.” 

And without another word, she turns around and slams the door--with too much energy, since it bounces and stays open a couple inches. Giving up, Lily scowls one last time, takes Severus hand and walks away from the boys compartment. James takes his head off the door, watching the pair get further away. 

“It’s unbelievable,” he hears her saying, though she doesn’t exactly talk in whispers, “he’ll never grow up. He’ll always be that childish, brain damaged, dork.” 

“Hey--LILY!” he yells. “Where’ll you spend the rest of the journey?” 

“None of your damn business, Potter!” replies her back, without turning around. “I’ll be happier on the train’s rooftop than inside the same compartment as yours! And not you, not the Wicked Witch of the West, could stop me, for heaven’s sake!!” she yells finally, closing the hall’s door between them. 

Through the mirror James can still see Snape’s figure walking with Lily, which only infuriates him more, so he finds his seat again, ranting under his breath. It takes him a full minute to calm down and realize his three best friends are surrounding him with identical looks of pity, shame and just the briefest of cocky smiles. 

“What was that about a West Witch?” he asks. 

“A Muggle reference,” starts explaining Peter, to be cut off by Remus. 

“You don’t want to know. The real question is--Did you really think that was going to work?” he asks kindly. 

“Oh, let me be,” scowls him, sitting in a corner of the bench. Almost wishing to disappear for some minutes, or the rest of the journey--and he even considers getting the Invisibility Cloak, if he didn’t catch by the corner of his eye how Peter gives Sirius a couple golden coins. “You had a bet against me?!” he yells incredulous. 

“It’s not really a bet when you know what the result’s going to be,” replies Sirius nonchalantly. “It feels wrong to take so much money from you, Peter. You really should stop rooting for James.” 

"So only Peter stays by my side, that's encouraging," scowls the boy.

"It'd help to know he only did so out of friendship, respect and blind loyalty," Sirius remarks. "If he were a bit smarter he'd never have bet on you, not in three life times."

"Wow, that's so nice, coming from my best friends," scowls James, seriously pondering if he could ever manage to hex Sirius in time before he'd counteract. “Would it hurt you all so much helping me instead of taking monetary benefits from my misfortunes?” 

“It would, actually,” confirms Sirius, sprawling beside James. “Because there’s no way in hell you’re gonna get that girl, James, dear. Not in a million years. So we’re not fighting a lost cause--and you shouldn’t, either.” 

“The day I prove you wrong--” 

Sirius doesn’t even interject James verbally; a simple scoff shows pretty clearly his thoughts. 

“The day I get a date with Lily Evans,” resumes James, pretending he didn’t hear anything, “you’ll owe me grand.” 

“My, of course,” confirms Sirius in a dramatic, theatrical way. “If that day ever comes, I’ll give you my whole inheritance from the Noble House of Black.” 

“Well, it’s a good thing that won’t ever happen,” chuckles Peter. 

“Oh, shut up, you all,” scowls James. 

He snatches from Peter’s hands a half-empty box of sweets and eats them five at a time. The others follow his suit, willing to eat up all of their sweets and chocolates--an enormous amount thanks to Remus--before arriving at Hogwarts castle. Some minutes later, the whole ordeal over Lily’s past already, or at least James can pretend it is, and they’re nothing but goofing around again.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By their second year at Hogwarts, Minnie's already got a bias and affection towards the Marauders, particularly Sirius, in spite of all their mischief-making

“You formed a gigantic wave of every kind of sweets ever made by Honeydukes, and flooded the entirety of the sixth floor corridor, forbidding access to the Study of Ancient Runes classroom, forced the whole area of the Castle to be isolated, creating a mess that’d take a dozen house-elves a whole day to clean it up. Now, you’ll cleanse the whole corridor, without wands, the Muggle way--will stay here as long as it takes,” informs sternly their Head of House. 

“Wow. Stating our crime and punishment before abandoning us. Anyone else got the feeling we’re about to get the expulsion or the death penalty?” asks Mr. Pettigrew jokingly. 

It isn’t that much of an effort for her, but Professor McGonagall has to refrain herself from snickering, as all Mr. Lupin, Mr. Black and Mr. Potter do. Being in Gryffindor and most specially, being a member of this elite group, has certainly helped evolve young and anxious-looking Mr. Pettigrew. Back in first year he’d never dare to mock their Head of House before the woman. 

“Prof. Abernathy will keep your wands until you’re finished and he checks you’re actually done with your work. I’d advise you against trying to get your wands back and speed up the process or trying to run. Not only because the punishment then would be much worse--Mr. Filch still wishes to see you lot in shackles--but for the Staff Members’ sakes too. None of us wants to spend the day keeping an eye on you and looking for you around the Castle. Is that understood?” she demands severely, eyeing them all in turn, so they all drop their heads, pretending shame and remorse. 

“Yes, ma’am,” chime the four of them. 

“Good,” she approves the manners she wishes would show up more often. “Off you go, then.” 

The four kids turn around to grab a cloth each and a bucket and mop, heads dropped, bit crestfallen--which is exactly what they should be feeling. Minnie certainly hoped they fulfill their punishment. 

“Mr. Potter,” she calls. 

Should have expected that that name would make two boys stop in their track and turn around. Mr. Sirius is practically a brother of James’s, that showed up already in last year. They look, speak, act all alike. If it weren’t for those glasses, that hair and that typical Slytherin air, he could be James’s twin brother. He blends in the Potter family better than a Potter himself would. And that’s why she’ll see he gets as much quality time with the Potters as humanly possible. 

“James,” she specifies and waits until Mr. Sirius joins his friends at the end of the corridor and young Mr. Potter approaches her. 

“Ma’am?” 

“I do hope you’ll stay here all morning and afternoon if it’s necessary and won’t try to get away?” she demands. 

“Even for us, that’d prove to be pretty difficult, Professor.” 

“No funny businesses?” she insists. “I won’t catch any of you wandering around the Castle this morning?” 

It’s taken him a moment, but upon her insistence, it seems James understands what’s going on without her saying it out loud. He looks at Sirius above his shoulder, his face dropped, and nods once, sullenly, taking upon Minnie’s unsaid request. 

“Don’t worry, ma’am, this corridor will be clean as a whistle by the time we’re finished.” 

“We are agreed, then. I’ll get back to you this evening.” 

“Professor,” he bids farewell finally. 

He takes his bucket filled with water and soap and a couple cloths, brushes and gloves before joining his friends, joking as usual, pretending as if Minnie hadn’t told him anything personal and private. She stands there for some long moments, catching up their easy conversation, as he puts on the gloves up to his sleeves and kneels to soak the cloths in the warm water. Minerva can confess she is surprised that the boys take in such good spirits the punishment. 

“Don’t start without me,” says James. 

“Would never forget your part on this,” scowls Sirius, scooping away to leave James more space, without once stopping brushing the walls with his wet cloth on one hand, the brush on the other. 

“Specially when you added to the mix, without telling any of us, those extra sticky candies, which is why it’s now so damn complicated to get this off the walls,” adds Remus, hitting James on the shoulder with his cloth. James laughs upon having all of his face and right shoulder soaking wet and with bubbles of soap all over his robe.

“Not only the walls,” snickers Peter. 

“True,” acknowledges Sirius. “Those Ravenclaw girls who got bathed in the wave, had to had four showers in a row with Repelling Spells to get it out of their hair.” 

“And now we owe them a brand new robe as well.” 

“That’s easy to fix, at least,” sighs James, cocking his head while he starts polishing his corner with the brush. 

“Well, Prongs, imagine how would you solve that if you didn’t have access to your parents’ bank account,” scowls Mr. Lupin. 

“Please, Remmy, Sirius and I’ll take care of the robes, don’t worry ‘bout it. Plus, I don’t know why you’re complaining--we got a day free of Ancient Runes studies, that’s a win for everyone.” 

That is true, reckons McGonagall. Figuring she’s listened in their conversation enough as it is, she turns around, bidding farewell to Prof. Abernathy as she walks by him, a corner over the disastrous area, wishing him a relaxed morning consisting of keeping an eye on those four. 

She dashes through the empty corridors--everyone else is enjoying out in the fields this uncharacteristic sunny Saturday morning--to her office. When she closes the door it’s still five minutes to the meeting, so she sits behind her desk and shuffles through her paperwork to find that one parchment, signed by Mr. and Mrs. Potter, leaving it at hand, on one side of the desk. 

A green light shines at her back and she turns around to see in her fireplace the face of the visitor she’s been waited. 

“Minerva,” says the woman, both as a greeting and a request for permission. 

“Come in,” she yells, standing from the chair. 

High flames raise and next second, her old classmate in Hogwarts steps into the office. The room temperature must drop at least ten degrees due to her entrance; she comes in with that all well-known aura around her of nobility, superiority and above all, criticism, as she walks around the room to take a seat, checking every last detail in sight. It is way worse than Minerva remembered, she reckons, doing her best not to notice that unpleasant look on her guest’s face while pouring the tea. 

“Walburga,” she says handing her one of the cups, her first word in minutes. 

“Thanks, Minerva,” appreciates the woman, really trying here to be polite. 

She lays the cup on the desk, untouched, still looking anywhere but the Head of House and former peer mate. On the other hand, Minerva takes the smallest of sips and grabs a biscuit, leaving the platter’s lid on the desk in case Walburga wants one too--though she doubts it. 

“Well, where is he?” demands Walburga, eyeing around the office as if looking for that male person she’s expecting. 

“Where’s who?” repeats McGonagall, pretending to be surprised by her question. 

“That moronic son of mine in Gryffindor,” Walburga explains in a scowl, still looking for him, only to avoid Minerva’s eye. “Thought this’d be about him. What’s he done now?” 

“You’ll see, this meeting _is_ about Sirius,” grants Minnie, deliberately using the name Walburga’d smartly avoided uttering, “but not because he’s done anything wrong.” 

This seems to surprise Walburga more than anything she could have said. The woman finally sits straight and locks Minerva’s eye, a smallest mocking grin in her mouth, cynical. She knows why she’s been called once again to Hogwarts, even though it’s been a few weeks since Minerva’s last owl, way more time they’d expected to hear from her. 

“Really? I find that very hard to believe. Last year--” 

“I’ve decided to learn from my mistakes, Walburga,” says Minerva, not giving a damn about interrupting her old classmate. “I won’t be calling you anymore every time he does something that violates any of the School rules.” 

Walburga raises an eyebrow. “Though you’d be fed up with him right about now,” she confesses. 

“Oh, I am,” promises Minerva, letting herself showing her real emotions just once. “Quite exhausted, to be honest. I dread getting up from my bed every morning to find out what else have those four planned for the day.” 

“Being that the case, I don’t understand. You want him to stop said actions, you won’t achieve it by light-hearted, stupid punishments, Minerva. What he needs is a heavy hand that leads him and--” 

“You see, that’s the thing. I don’t want him to stop.” 

For the first time, Walburga doesn’t have an immediate response. Her mockery façade and grin have partially vanished and one of her hands opens and shuts repeatedly, the only sign this meeting isn’t going as she’d predicted. Moreover, two seconds after, against all odds, she leans in. Minerva hands her the biscuit platter and she grabs one, out of bewilderment. 

“Now I’m baffled,” she says when she’s eaten it. 

“He and his friends are just being boys, Walburga,” explains Minerva, hands together over the desk. “Very infantile ones, I won’t deny it, some that I and the Staff fear will never grow up, maybe, but kids their age altogether, in spite of what you might think.” 

Walburga’s thoughts are quite proven when she raises her voice to stop her. 

“He’s _my_ son,” she exclaims. “And the heir of the Black House. He is not entitled to frivolous stupidity and dreams--” 

“Walburga, he’s _twelve_ ,” Minerva insists calmly. “He’s found very good friends, he’s happy, he’s enjoying his time here. If that means he has to spend every weekend of the semester indoors serving detention with every one of his teachers, so be it.” 

“Miner--” 

She doesn’t let Walburga interject her this time; there’s this point she needs to make quite clear before wrapping up this meeting. 

“But I’ll be the one who decides those punishments,” she resumes, “according to what I see fit depending on the severity of his actions. Henceforth you should know, dear Mrs. Black, that there are some kinds of physical discipline that I don’t condone and simply can’t accept. I won’t allow them while he’s still a Hogwarts student and a pupil from my House,” she insists, raising her voice above Walburga’s attempts at interject her. 

Which make Mrs. Black the more outraged by this whole conversation. 

“This is none of your business. I must tell you, you’re out of your mind,” she warns. 

“That may be,” accepts Minerva. “D’you remember if that ever stopped me?” 

The woman does, of course; hard to forget the many things Minerva performed throughout her academic years--and also later--without ever breaking the rules nor being caught afterwards. Makes one wonder why on Earth did she chose to become a Law-abiding professor. 

“Good,” she praises when Walburga can’t find words to answer her. “I called you here for a simple request. _Let him be a boy,_ Walburga. Let him enjoy life, have fun; let him thrive. For our old friendship’s sake, if nothing else.” 

Any other person wouldn’t have a problem with a petition like this. Heck, she’s never have to ask a parent for this--it’s every parents’ job to let their kids enjoy their childhood. But Walburga, she ponders it for some long seconds, her emotions never showing in her stone-cold face--a stern look similar to the one she gets back from Minnie. In the end, however, she can see in Walburga’s eyes that she’s made her decision, the wrong choice, she sighs in regret. 

“He can’t, Minerva,” whispers finally the woman. “I can’t. He’s not a boy like the rest. There’s a path he has to follow. I have to make him fulfill it. He can’t deviate from it, not ever, much less now--” 

All of a sudden she drops her voice, staring anxious at Minerva. She didn’t slip up, but she didn’t have to say the words out loud--the Professor understands. Black’s family’s place in the edge of a War that puts at stake wizard’s blood status has been clear even before it started. A position that unfortunately--or rather not--young Mr. Black doesn’t share and wishes he didn’t have to follow. 

“His future’s been written since he was born,” she resumes. “And because of that, there are some things I can’t overlook. He does whatever he damn pleases here at Hogwarts, but--” 

“Alright,” says Minerva, as painful as it is for her to hear such words coming from one of her lion’s mother. “Then I’ve got one more thing to tell you: you are no longer welcome here at Hogwarts where your eldest son, Sirius Orion Black, is concerned.” 

“Excuse you?” exclaims Walburga, now simply outraged. She’s never heard such words and is having a hard time believing they’re actually addressed to her. 

“I’ll personally see his education and career and make sure he’s got a bright future when he finishes his studies,” resumes Minerva. “But what he does here at Hogwarts is, to put it simply, none of your business anymore. This is your last visit to the School.” 

“You can’t--” she stutters, slowly raising from her chair. 

“As Deputy Headmistress, yes, I can, that’s why I’m doing it,” she states, refraining from showing a mocking grin that’d be no help at all. “And since we’re talking about your son, I must inform you that the form allowing him to go back home for Christmas holidays was misplaced.” 

“What does that mean, ‘misplaced’?!” 

“Means that we cannot allow him to go back to your place when the semester ends.” 

“That’s ridiculous!” yells Walburga, leaning forwards over the desk. 

“That’s how things work around here, for security reasons,” replies Minerva, making an effort to keep cool. “I’m sure you remember from your years studying here.” 

“Just give me a copy of the form and I’ll sign it right here and--” 

“Afraid that’s not possible either; the deadline is long due. But I promise, we’ll take very good care of him during the vacations, just like we’ve been doing since last year.” 

“You can’t keep my son here against our wishes, or his own will!” 

Walburga hits the desk with her fist, causing some papers to fall down the desk and, the ink bottle to spoil and some biscuits to sprout from the platter. Minerva stares at the mess briefly and considers her options, taking advantage of breaking eye contact with her visitor. She grabs her wand and cleans it all with a simple flick, keeping a biscuit in her hand. She takes a bite and hands another one to Walburga, who simply glares at her--the answer crystal clear. 

“D’you think he’d refuse to stay if I asked him his opinion?” she asks innocently afterwards. 

Since Walburga can’t give an honest negative answer, she prefers to keep silent, proving Minerva’s point. The silence lingers for some minutes as she sits down again, a bit defeated after the argument she’s clearly lost. Irritated, she grabs another biscuit and they eat in silence and take their tea, the aftermaths of the quarrel still hanging over them. 

“Is there anything else?” she demands irritated then, closing her eyes, almost fearing what Minerva can come up with now. 

“Not on my part,” says Minnie respectfully. “Would you like to add something?” 

“Yes,” confirms Walburga, standing straight again, a bit menacing now. “That you’re lucky I’m not suing this School and taking my children somewhere else.” 

“Nothing’s stopping you, of course,” states Minerva nonchalantly, a bit too innocent, “much less myself. You’d be right to do so--and certainly any Court in the country would rule in your favor. But I’m sure the Blacks would like to stay out of the public eye for the time being, keep little feuds like this in the family, the way you’ve always preferred to handle things. Plus, if you pull the boy apart from his friends. . . Well, I’d say your chances of making him agree to one day being the heir of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black would diminish greatly, now, wouldn’t they?”

Walburga raises again, pointing a single finger angrily, menacingly, at Minerva, not trying to be coldly polite anymore. 

“Minerva McGonagall, are you trying to blackmail us?” 

“Goodness me, no, I’d never do something like that,” she exclaims. “D’you feel threatened, Mrs. Black? I did offer you tea and biscuits.” 

“That’s it,” decides Walburga, hitting the desk again before grabbing her coat. “I’m leaving.” 

“Pity to cut this meeting short,” says Minerva, following Walburga closely as she heads for the fireplace without bothering to ask permission this time. “Thanks for stopping by, Mrs. Black,” are the last words she gets to say to her before she disappears in a green flare-up and smoke, saving her from being forced to add something cold and false in the line of “Hope to see you around very soon.” 

Grinning to herself in the solitude of her office, Minerva returns to her desk and retrieves the letters that have given her strength and courage to forgo this risky conversation that could have had so many bad consequences, for her, for this School and certainly for one Mr. Sirius Black. 

The first one, a poor falsification from young Mr. Potter, trying to convince her in his parents’ name that Sirius should spend his Christmas holidays at the Potters’ Manor. The second one, from Mrs. and Mr. Potter themselves, she received as a response to the owl she sent them after young Mr. Potter’s honest attempt to act on behalf his brother--hence, effectively allowing Sirius to spend his two-weeks vacation over Christmas at the Potters. After last year it was painfully clear to one and all that the boy didn’t want to return home anytime soon, or ever, could he avoid it. By doing this, Minerva and the Potters can delay his coming back some months. 

Enough time, she hopes, for Mrs. Black to calm down after this meeting and such harsh news for her and the Family to decide against punishing her boy physically, even if she thinks it’s for his own good.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That same night on September 1st 1972, Regulus comes to Hogwarts and Sirius isn't pleased, to say the least, with the Sorting Hat's choice to put him in Slytherin.

The double marble doors open up magically to let Deputy Headmistress through, followed by a two-line crowd of sixty frightened-looking, anxious pupils wearing black plain clothes, having a hard time keeping up with Prof. McGonagall’s pace--some because they’re too scared and intimidated by their surroundings, others the opposite, they’re utterly in awe. 

“Look at them!” giggles Peter, hiding behind James’ back to laugh without being seen, although nothing prevents his laughter to be heard. “They’re scared stiffed!”

“Yeah, unlike you were last year right about now, huh?” mocks James, which stops Peter’s giggling at once. 

“And that was without you thinking you had to defeat a Dementor,” Remus points out, his eyes fixed on his book on the table. 

“Dear Lord,” scowls Lily. “In what universe did you think that was a good idea?” She’s seated two places from James’ right, Dorcas and Marlene between them, which is still too close to the Potter boy as far as Lily’s concerned--reason why she keeps her eyes down to her dish, straight to the newbies coming in or to her left to the rest of their classmates in Gryffindor, avoiding Potter’s glare altogether, but that doesn’t stop her from making judgmental and harmful comments now and then about James, and he’s not afraid to answer back. Every time the two exchange a few words, the room’s temperature drops twenty degrees, at least. 

“Something on your mind, Evans?” demands James, his tone not as nice as his words might indicate. 

“A few things, yeah. Don’t you think they’re all scared enough as it is, being in an all new environment for the first time, when some of them didn’t know a thing about Magic a month ago, that you need to make it worse by making up a nonsensical rumor about the Sorting Ceremony?”

“Oh, please, it doesn’t deserve capital punishment.”

“Says you. We’ll see if someone ever thanks you for it.”

“That is, if they find out,” James points out, raising a finger in the end to remark their brilliance.   
“Don’t worry, Potter. I’ll make sure they know,” promises Evans darkly, almost a threat. 

“Could have been worse, though,” Dorcas comments, not realizing that’s not helping either side of the conversation. 

“True,” grants Lily. “After what I heard, I thought they were about to hex the Sorting Hat or something.”

“That is not an entirely bad idea,” confesses James, a bit in awe and reverence with Lily, after a few seconds of silence and stumbled looks shared between the four boys upon the occurrence. “Peter, thank Evans for me,” he suggests, because ‘thank you’ and other forms of polite conversations are unknown words between James and Lily for the time being. 

Peter doesn’t have the time to do so, however. 

“Oh, God, why did I ever open my mouth?” she whines, hiding her head with her hands, pondering if hitting her head against the wooden table would be enough to knock her out cold. 

“Maybe because you don’t usually connect your mouth with your brain either?” Dorcas tries to provide, hiding a chuckle. 

“Don’t you ever try to compare me with Potter, ever again,” forbids Lily, her voice warning that someone should do so, they'd be doing so under their own risk. 

“We’ve got to look it up, though, don’t you think?” James asks, getting the immediate agreement by Pettigrew. 

“Better start getting on with it,” recommends Remus under his breath, without looking up at James. 

“Hey, Moony, what’cha got there? Can’t be studying already,” presses James, grabbing Remus’ book from under his arms, not giving a damn about Remus’ mild resistance. 

“The Secret Garden?” ask Peter and James in surprise, after which they allow Remus to get his book back. 

“Muggle literature I don’t want to get behind of,” explains Remus upon James’ surprise, who gives him back the book as if it were poison or something worse. “It’s recommended for our age. Maybe you should try it too.”

“James Potter, reading? Chance would be a fine thing,” scowls Lily. 

This time James clenches his jaw audibly and sends a hatred look towards Evans, who pretends not to notice, whereas everyone else around them shivers. They’ve just set the record for the insults between the two and also given their classmates an idea of how this new school year’s going to unfold, to everyone’s dismay. All of a sudden, the next few months don’t look so pleasant to any of them--nor to the Staff members, when they figure it out. 

“Plus, he’s not intellectually apt for that book, I’ll let you in that secret,” Lily resumes, adding even more fuel to the already unsteady and uncontrolled flames--James is almost on his feet already, reaching for his wand. 

“Come on, you two, could we avoid getting any detentions on the first night of the year?” begs Remus, tired of the quarrel that’s just began, forcing James back on his seat. 

“Oh, I wouldn’t have a problem with that. Talk to your stupid friend.”

“Listen, you--”

“Hold on,” orders Remus, reaching a hand to stop James from grabbing his wand--not that Lily couldn’t protect herself if it came to it, but the newbies probably won’t appreciate another show tonight. 

Only when James isn’t stopped also by Sirius does he snap out of his never-ending quarrel with Lily and remembers the one thing he should have been concerned about today and forgot completely--shame on him. Sirius has barely paid any attention at his classmates; he’s turned towards the aisle between the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables, his gaze locked on someone in particular. 

Regulus Black, the eleven-years-old Sirius’ so focused on, is easy to spot amongst the sixty-people crowd. Although he looks a bit anxious, the young boy keeps his head held high, his eyes front and his shoulders back, almost as if he were in the military. Living up to his family’s expectations, those that Sirius wished Regulus had abandoned the minute he got on the Hogwarts Express. 

Neither James nor Sirius look away from the boy’s back while the pupils gather and the Deputy Headmistress explains the Sorting Ceremony. The relief from the students isn’t as satisfactory nor funny as they’d expected, after remembering what’s at stake here tonight. 

There’re a couple of boys--one Ravenclaw, one Gryffindor--before the name “Regulus Black” is called out and the boy climbs up the dais and the stool. Sirius tries to hide his eagerness and anxiety, but James has to slap him on the shoulder to remind him that breathing is needed to stay alive. 

But he loses the ability to breathe altogether when the Hat makes its announcement after ten seconds of deliberation: while the Slytherin students roar in response and Regulus joins the table furthest from the Gryffindor one, Sirius finds himself unable to move, speak, or smile and clap on his brother’s behalf. 

“Tell me this is just a nightmare,” he scowls when the ceremony resumes, slamming his fists on the table. “He is NOT a Slytherin!”

“Want to go take it up with the Sorting Hat?” mocks Remus. 

“I’m considering it!” he promises, half-turning towards the Hat, on top of another pupil, the last one sorted into Ravenclaw. And although the boy is only half-kidding, they’re aware they should stop him whatever means necessary if he ends up deciding to take it up with the Sorting Hat--he knows enough hexes at the sweet age of 12 to destroy the Hat without possibility of it ever turning back to life again. 

“Come on, don’t be stupid. It’s not he end of the world, him being a Slytherin.”

“Yes, it is! Regulus is not suited to be there!”

“You don’t know that, Sirius.”

“Heck, I know my brother! Being there--”

“Okay, you might want to stop talking. Your brother’s been looking this way for a while, trying to catch your eye,” Peter reports in a sullen voice. 

“Smile and at least pretend you’re happy for him,” James commands under his breath, hoping Regulus is not an ace at lip reading across a Hall. 

That finally gets Sirius to shut up as he tries to force a smile to his lips. He looks over his shoulder and easily finds Regulus at the other end of the Hall; he gives him a wave and a thumbs up and Regulus, him with a genuine smile, responds the same way. 

“You know, this hatred you have for the Slytherin House in general is completely misled and irrational,” comments Lily under her breath as Sirius turns around towards his friends, shivering slightly. “Maybe now that your younger brother is a Slytherin you might make an effort to see that.”

“The only exception to the rule,” scowls Sirius. 

“Oh, for the love of--” Lily turns around to focus on the ceremony, but the four young boys won't have none of it now. 

“Serious question now--Siri, d’you think he’ll join our little group of misbehaved boys?” asks Peter, excited all over again. 

Sirius cocks his head at that. 

“I really doubt it. He’s too somber and formal. Plus, he knows Walburga would never forgive him if he were to follow my footsteps.” He’s given it a serious thought and he wishes the answer were yes--even if it’s just to keep a close eye on his own brother, James understands. 

“Well, either way, we have a whole new generation of first-years to test our pranks with,” says Peter. “Should be fun.”

Sirius slamming his fists on the table vanishes any good humor they'd managed to recover, as both the first and third-year Gryffindor students turn towards him in fright. The look in his eyes only intensifies that feeling. 

“You will not touch him,” he forbids coldly, looking in turn at James, Peter and Remus. “I don’t care what we pull out, whether it is intentional or not--he will not suffer because of us under any circumstances.”

“Sirius, all of our pranks are harmless--”

“No exceptions!”

“You backing off already, mate?” demands James, his voice mocking, although really desperate deep down. 

“Course not. But he’s my brother and he’s out of limits,” insists Sirius. 

The three of them wait a couple of seconds as if expecting Sirius to say it was all just a joke. But it’s not and in the end, they all nod to show they agree with Sirius’ terms and conditions, because they really had no other option if they wanted to stay alive. The eleven-year-old Slyherin boy will be the safest person throughout his years at Hogwarts, that’s for sure. Even members of the Staff have been harmlessly targeted by them; only a blood-related person could be out of harm from them. 

They realize that while they were speaking, the Sorting Ceremony has resumed and is now nearly over--only two more students, a Gryffindor and another Ravenclaw. Just on time, because they’re starving. Although, following Lily’s example, they make an effort to welcome the newbies to Gryffindor and introduce themselves, since they forgot their manners earlier and know none of the first-year students names. 

After a brief speech by the Headmaster, food finally appears on the trays and drinks in the vases, to the newbies surprise--their gasps get the rest of students giggling. They’re going to need some time to get used to the way Hogwarts works. 

Everyone starts gobbling down immediately and a thousand conversations erupt at the same time. But there’s still Sirius, who keeps looking over his shoulder at Regulus, instead of eating like everyone else. The boy looks relaxed enough, is having a portion of the chops while speaking to a second-year old, and yet Sirius doesn’t look content by what he sees. 

“What the hell,” scowls James, wiping his greasy fingers with the napkin. “Come on, Siri, guys.”

“What?” the three demand as he stands, his plate in one hand and forcing Peter up with the other. 

“We should introduce ourselves to our best friend’s brother, shouldn’t we?” he says, climbing up to the table, to his classmates dismay, in order to jump by Sirius side and get to the aisle between the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables. Peter, Remus and Sirius follow his lead through the Ravenclaw table, getting a list of insults and swear words in thirty seconds almost unbelievable, as students struggle to get their dishes and glasses out of their way, seeing they’re stopping at nothing, till they reach the Slytherin table. By then most conversations have vanished and they feel all the Great Hall staring at them--everyone, except Regulus. By the looks of it, he can imagine what's going on behind him. 

“Scoop,” orders Sirius coldly, to the students surrounding Regulus. The fire in his eyes and his threatening voice leave no room for a discussion as the students comply, allowing James, Remus, Sirius and Peter space to sit. 

“How considerate of you,” appreciates James, really making an effort not to feel uncomfortable here, surrounded by students with the green robes. “Hi, Regulus. I'm James, friend of that silly big brother of yours. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

“Uh. . . Likewise,” says the boy, out of the respect his parents have taught him, eyeing his brother only. “You’re--” 

“He’s James Potter, I’m Remus John Lupin and this here is Peter Pettigrew,” Remus introduces, although he’s fairly certain Sirius has talked about them to Regulus more than once. “Your brother’s best friends.” 

“Reggie, we can call you Reggie, right? Feels like we know you first-hand already,” says Peter, “you should really start eating before everything vanishes. You need food after the trip on the boats through the Lake.” 

“Yeah, sure,” stutters Regulus, reaching a hand out for his glass, only because he’s been told to do so. 

“I'd recommend you keep away from the beverage they call wine around here,” says Sirius, pointing at the pitcher in question. “The most awful wine you've ever tasted.”

“Coming from Hogwarts? Mom would call that a disgrace,” Regulus tries to joke. And although speaking about his parents is a delicate issue, Sirius laughs whole-heartedly. 

“Indeed.”

There's more movement down the table and they raise their heads just to see Severus leaving the Slytherin table with his own plate and headed towards the Gryffindor one to sit by Lily's side in return. She doesn't notice at first; James notices she's staring at the four of them with a look he can't describe. Hatred? Fear? Respect? Who the hell knows, James scowls as he turns towards his plate to keep on eating and join the conversation with Sirius' brother. 

“Is there a problem with him?” he's asking now, pointing at Severus.

“Oh, don’t worry,” scowls Sirius. “He’s a git. Do me a favor and keep away from him as well--he’d give you a bad stomach also.”

“If you don’t mind,” begs a third-year girl, almost shouting in rage. 

“Sorry?” demands James in Sirius' place. 

“It’s the Start-of-Term Feast and we're allowing you to eat with us,” says the girl, each word leaving painfully her mouth. “The least you could do is not to insult the students of our house.”

“First of all, you’re not allowing, we’re imposing, and you’ve turned a blind eye on us, so it’s not like we owe you anything,” replies Sirius. Remus resumes his reasoning. 

“Second, you can throw us out whenever you want, it is your right, but what example would that give to the newbies?”

“Hey, if you wanted a duel, you only had to ask,” says the girl, reaching for her wand and leaving it on the table, for everyone to see, an open invitation--though the appropriate word would be, a threat. 

They all hear someone clearing their throat and turn the other way, towards the dais where the teacher's table is, specifically towards McGonagall, the one who's caught their attention. She’s on her way to stand and address the Hall, maybe order everyone to go back to their respective House table--and a few other Staff members seem up to the task as well--when the Albus rests a hand on her elbow, prompting her to sit down again without a single word, not even a cold look of reprimand. 

The Headmaster’s response is a mystery to one and all, but as long as he doesn’t force the four Gryffindor boys to go back to their seats, they're fine with it. So after a few more seconds, everything returns to the strange, tense normality that had set with the new arrangements.

“Perhaps this is an example, to his point of view, of House bonding?” suggests Remus in a whisper, when the many conversations around them makes it impossible for anyone except Peter, James and Sirius to hear him. 

James scoffs while blowing the steam off a hot potato. 

“Let the man dream,” he scowls. 

With a roll of eyes, Remus drops the subject and addresses Regulus again, who’s probably too polite to have thrown them out of there. 

“Hey, are you excited for your classes?”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another DADA teacher quits from Hogwarts School and this time it might just not be because of the jinx of the post...

“DUMBLEDORE!!” 

The roar can be heard from pretty much any spot in the castle; and just by that single one-word sentence, every single student and teacher can guess--not that difficult to figure out--who’s the person outraged and dismayed with the Headmaster and the cause of said mayhem. Within minutes, bets on the probable outcome of the meeting are running wild from ear to ear, some closer to the truth. 

One particularly proud James Potter stands on the Great Hall bench and claims to everyone who lingers enough time to hear, “He’s gonna quit, you know,” as if that possibility came as a surprise to any of his classmates. 

“Dear Lord, I hope not,” whispers Lily under her breath. 

“You can’t tell me you liked him,” scowls James, still unnecessarily standing on the bench, just to be the spotlight for some more seconds. 

“That’s none of your business. But if the man’s truly quitting, you better find another one for the job,” says Lily, venom in her voice, “because I have no shred of doubt he’s quitting for something that you pulled off.” 

Without saying anything else, not even finishing her breakfast, she gathers her books and her schoolbag and leaves the Great Hall--Severus joining her at the entrance, taking her schoolbag off her shoulders. 

“Did you see that?” asks James, just a tiny bit inflated. “We almost had a polite conversation.” 

“That was polite in your book?” snickers Remus, who’s too hungry to stop eating, even to refute James’s words. “You need to get a new dictionary, mate. ‘Polite’ means courteous, refined or cultured; I wouldn’t describe that venomous, irritated exchange with any of those words.” 

“If he didn’t consider conversations like these polite, he’d have to reckon he’s never spoken to Evans,” replies Sirius, nonchalantly, “and that is something you’ll never find in his book.” 

Lily Evans becomes once more the topic of discussion amongst the four Marauders, conjecturing, or rather predicting, James’s real odds of dating that girl not even once in his mortal life. As usual, James denies such statement, but as usual, it comes down to a three-to-one bet and so after some minutes he prefers to shut up. 

But returning to the person who’s the reason for Lily and James’s almost-polite conversation, Professor Benson, this year’s Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, who to every student he passes by is currently enjoying with an ulcer his last day of teaching at Hogwarts, marches through the castle, headed straight for the Headmaster’s office. 

He’s stopped only because the Headmistress comes his way with that particular stern look destined almost solely to her students, preventing him from barging in on the Headmaster. 

“Prof. Benson, you’re acting more childish than any other student with all this shouting,” she demands. “This is a place of study, Professor Benson--and most students appreciate it to be quiet.” 

“Minerva, move aside, I must speak with the Headmaster.” 

“And what could possibly be so important that--?” She doesn’t even need to finish her question, she figures it all out by herself. “Oh,” she says, nodding her head once, seeing also that there isn’t even a point in arguing. “I shouldn’t try to talk you out of it, should I?

“I’m afraid not, Minerva; you'd just be wasting your time,” sighs Prof. Benson. 

“Well, it’s been a pleasure to work with you, however brief our time as colleagues might have been,” says Minerva, before spinning to face the gigantic gargoyle guarding the Headmaster’s office. “Charm Choc.” 

The gargoyle starts spinning at once, showing the marble spiral staircases. A little bit surprised, Professor Benson thanks McGonagall with a nod of his head before stepping in on the staircase which less than thirty seconds later place him outside the Headmaster’s office. He doesn’t bother to knock before entering; Dumbledore must find time for him. 

But he might have been overestimating their dear Headmaster, as the old sage is stepping into the fireplace with a handful of floo-powder, ready to make a run, or a flight, for it. Seeing this, Professor Benson is actually surprised that Dumbledore didn’t overrule the access to his office to prevent this conversation. 

“Don’t you dare!” roars Professor Benson. 

Defeated, knowing he couldn’t leave now for his life, Dumbledore steps outside the chimney and heads for his desk, sitting on his chair comfortably as if nothing had happened. A certain way of handling things that Prof. Benson simply can’t understand. 

“Morning, Professor Benson. How’re are you this morning? It was quite chilly last night, wasn’t it? I hope I’m not coming down with a fever. Are you comfortable in your chambers? I can ask a house-elf to add a couple of torches to your fireplace--” 

“We need to talk,” he scowls, leaning in. 

“I figured that much when you barged into my office, Professor.” 

“And it seemed you weren’t at all interested in listening to me, as you were trying to flee!” 

“Oh, no, Professor Benson, you don’t understand. I have this horrible backache and was going to St. Mungo’s for this particular medical recipe they give me for free from time to time,” replies the Headmaster, rubbing his back with a sore expression. “It works wonders. I’m certain I could get an extra flask for you should you need one.” 

“The only thing I could get from St. Mungo’s is a treatment for ulcer,” says Prof. Benson. 

“Dear Lord, aren’t you feeling well?” asks Dumbledore in concern, raising from his chair. 

Professor Benson can’t take it anymore, even if he’d promised himself to maintain his composure throughout the conversation. “The ulcer that I got from _your_ pupils, Albus!” he yells. 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” whispers Dumbledore after some long seconds. “But we should keep a record, it’s the first time any of my students--”

“Dumbledore, stop joking,” prays Prof. Benson. “You got me. Last summer--you convinced me with all your promises of funds, time off and even volunteers for my research. I gave in for academic purposes.” 

“Aren’t you satisfied with everything I’ve provided you?” 

“Of course I am--this year I’ve advanced my research more than I’ve done in the last three years. I thank you for that. But there’s no way I can ever finish my research without the object of study, Albus!!” 

“Oh,” he says, finally understanding the main problem. “Rubeus--” 

“He sent me an owl this morning. He apologizes deeply for saying that he doesn’t think Satirna is still within Hogwarts grounds. He’ll keep on looking for her as long as I want, but he’s lost all hope already. And with her gone, all this school year’s work’s been for nothing!” 

“My dear Prof. Benson, I am truly sorry for your loss. But I beg you, you cannot quit because your mini-species of dragon has left the nest--” 

“She didn’t leave!” interjects the Professor. “I told you the day she went missing--I saw those four boys around my chambers prior to the disappearance! I can take their jokes and misbehaving at class and for the most part their high grades at papers, but not a stealing!” 

“Please, Professor Benson--” 

“And I will most certainly not stand throwing away my research!” he resumes as if no-one had ever interrupted him. “That’s the the straw that broke the camel’s back, Albus.” 

The Headmaster, seeing it’s better this way, stays in silence for some long minutes, that is, all the time Professor Benson needs to get out of his chest every tiny, unimportant complaint he’s been holding all year about those four guys. Albus can’t really blame the man for needing this--others have left within a couple of months after meeting Mr. Potter, Lupin, Black and Pettigrew. Prof. Benson at least has fulfilled his whole duty and has last until the last weeks of term, when all the exams are already over. 

In the end, the man sits down on the chair again, panting slightly. They wait a couple more minutes until his breathing’s even and his anger’s gone, partially. 

“Professor Benson,” Albus tries again, to be interrupted once more. 

“I don’t want that title anymore, Dumbledore. I’ve dedicated my whole adult life to the study of the beasts and Dark animals which roam this world--and I wanted to teach these students all about them, ‘cause they probably will be facing them some time soon. But I can’t anymore, Albus. Please, don’t ask me to stay.” 

Before such a sincere, devastated petition, all words Albus was about to say mean nothing to Professor Benson. He crosses his fingers above the desk, trying to find anything, something to say that’ll make change his mind. For once, he is unsuccessful. 

“Alright then, Mr. Benson,” he whispers in the end. “Goes without saying I won’t keep you here against your will. It’s been a privilege having you working for us this academic year and I hope you reconsider the position some time soon.” 

The scholar stands up, visibly relaxed. He’d certainly expected some reluctance and fuss from the Headmaster and being forced to fight for his resignation. But as he reaches his hand towards Albus, he realizes the man isn’t at all irrational--extravagant if anything, at best. 

“Maybe in a couple years,” he nods as they shake hands. The unsaid words are pretty clear to them both: he might reconsider coming back only when those four boys are gone from the school. Albus chuckles--he can’t really blame Mr. Benson. 

“I’ll look forward your owl. Have a safe trip home.” 

Their uncivil initial conversation has drifted slowly into a polite, content one, as Dumbledore walks Mr. Benson out of his office. 

“Say goodbye to the staff for me,” begs Mr. Benson finally, before leaving. 

Hearing the gargoyle spinning, returning Mr. Benson to the third floor corridor, Albus sits down again behind his desk, reaching for parchment and quill. The problem is, he has no idea who should he address now. 

Today’s second visitor of the morning doesn’t bother to knock either and finds him unmoving before a blank piece of parchment, ink dry on his quill, more than half an hour after Mr. Benson’s not-so-agressive departure. After packing his bags and arranging his travel back to London, he’s been bidding farewell to most of the students, who’ve seen him go in somewhat of a blue mood. A couple of them have actually apologized to the shcolar, given the fact that the reason of his departure isn’t at all secret--only to those who lack faith in Mr. Pettigrew, Mr. Lupin, Mr. Black and Mr. Potter’s skills for mischeifs. 

McGonagall, as well as if she’d received a permission from the Headmaster, sits at the other side of the desk, staring with the slighest grin and amusement the blank parchment. 

“Trying to fill in the vacant post?” she asks. 

Albus nods a couple of times and in a deep sigh, giving up on this task for today, drops the quill. And just because the day can’t get any worse, Minerva decides to put all the cards on the table. 

“It’s getting harder every year, isn’t it?” says McGonagall. 

The Headmaster sighs deeply, sinking in his chair--but a low chuckle can be heard, despite everything. 

“Guess it’s lucky school year’s almost over,” says the Headmistress, “you’ll have your time during summer to find someone fit for the job.” 

“I can only hope I do,” replies the man. “Wouldn’t want the students not to have a DADA teacher next year.” 

“Well, as a last resource, there’s always the possibility of you taking the post,” chuckles McGonagall, purposefully hurting the sage now. “I’d say there’s no way the Headmaster can quit--and you know the students, you can put up with them in class.” 

“Don’t tempt me,” says the Headmaster, “though you’ve given me some arguments, Minerva.” 

“Oh? Does that mean you’ll consider it?” demands her, leaning in, suddenly interested, ‘cause she couldn’t quite believe it if Dumbledore actually took the job. 

“Maybe,” grants Albus, cocking his head. He’s staring at the ceiling, the small window from which the sun lights the whole room, purposefully avoiding the Headmistress’ eye, “if I don’t find someone in time, I might ponder the possibility. Though I don’t think that’s a very good idea, Minerva,” he adds a bit more seriously, finally looking at her. “Giving our record, I might end up dead, or something worse. And then the school would end up in chaos.” 

McGonagall chuckles again, without knowing how to respond to that. Considering it’s better not to try, she summons a couple of candies from Dumbledore’s cabinet, hands one to the Headmaster and the two of them sink in their seats, eating in peaceful silence, without a doubt stalling their duties, trying not to think about the heavy burden of finding yet another DADA teacher for next academic year.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In their fifth year at Hogwarts, the Marauders engage their trials to become Animagi, with some unfortunate consequences.

The 5th year class is listening with intent and quite honestly, a bit of despair Professor Flitwick’s explanations on the Scourgify charm, being fully aware this one could be asked in their OWLs later this year. Ever since the beginning of trimester classes haven’t been that relaxed and easy-going as for the past four years, but rather extenuating and stressful, with the exams ahead of them. 

_“WHAT?”_

A shriek rises from the end of the classroom, breaking the concentration and tense atmosphere of the chamber as everyone turns to stare at Lily Evans, the one who interrupted the lesson. Some understand what’s happened and turn straight when they see Lily staring with disgust and anger at James, whereas the woman who’s caught the attention of the entire class starts blushing to a color nearly as red as her own hair. 

Professor Flitwick clears his throat, standing on his dais. 

“Miss Evans, is there something you didn’t understand?” 

“No, sir,” promises the girl in a whisper. “Everything’s crystal clear.” 

She glares straight at James while she says the last few words, the double meaning being hard to miss, and the man sinks into his seat while the Professor resumes his lecture. Lily can keep it cool for a couple of seconds, until the pace of the class is restored. 

“What do you mean, Pete’s at the infirmary?” she demands then, slowly and coldly, every word a sentence in itself. 

“I think that’s self-explanatory,” replies James. 

“Well, please enlighten me, because I don’t get it!” scowls Lily, doing her best not to raise her voice again. “What did you do to him?!” 

“Hey, why are you looking at me?” 

“Because I’m one hundred percent certain that you’re the cause for Pete’s hospitalization.” 

“Well, you’re wrong. Believe it or not, I’m not to blame for everything that happens within these walls,” scowls James. He waves his wand once more in an attempt to wipe his desk clean of the ink they poured earlier, to practice the Scourgify Charm; but his movement is too fierce and his pronunciation too violent that all he manages is to spread the ink further. 

“Oh, really. Because as far as I can remember, you participate in all the pranks that take place here at Hogwarts and also in all the hexing and attacking students.” 

“Let’s get this straight. I don’t work alone,” says James, a bit infuriated at this point, because none of his partners in crime are actually stepping in to help him. “I’ll take at most one quarter concerning the pranks you so apparently hate. And I’ll take less than that regarding the students attacks, because, as you well know, Slytherins are pros at that two!” 

“Please call the Record Guinness! I’ve found the one boy in the world who actually becomes dumber as he grows!” 

“Two points from Gryffindor, Miss Evans,” Prof. Flitwick calls all of a sudden, the stern and disappointment clear in his voice in spite of standing at the other side of the classroom. 

“Sir--” James tries to talk him out of punishing Lily, but this time Flitwick does not budge. 

“And two points as well for Mr. Potter. I don’t have a problem with deducting more points from your House if you keep talking and disrupting my class,” he promises when the two of them attempted to speak up against the punishment. 

In the end, both James and Lily drop their heads to show their understanding and submission to the Professor’s words. Nodding at that gesture, Flitwick proceeds once more his lecture, this time sounding a bit annoyed at the interruptions. 

Despite everything, now’s Sirius the first to speak up, leaning forwards so Lily can hear his whisper. 

“Maybe you’ve got a point--” he grants. 

Lily scoffs. 

“Maybe?” she asks, keeping her head dropped so Flitwick doesn’t see her lips moving. 

“But this time, I swear it on my mother’s life, James didn’t do anything. He didn’t send one of his best friends to the hospital, for God’s sake!” 

“Then why won’t you tell me what happened to Pete?” demands Lily once more. The lack of response from the three boys, specially from Remus, who hasn’t uttered a word throughout the conversation, confirms her worse thoughts. “Right. Should I give McGonagall a heads-up or will you be reporting to the Headmaster himself after this class?” 

“I feel like you hate me nearly as much as we have that irrational hate and primal suspicions towards the Slytherins,” says James. 

“And you realize this after five years? You should report to Dumbledore as the brightest wizard of your age.” 

“Evans, listen,” insists Sirius, pointing his wand at the girl so she stops talking for a second, aware of the many painful hexes he could direct at her without uttering a word. “For the last time, James isn’t to blame for Pete’s condition.” 

“And he’s alright, actually,” Remus adds. “It’s just that Madame Pomfrey wanted him to rest for a couple of days. Nothing else. We promise.” 

“OK, that’s enough,” sighs an exasperated Prof. Flitwick at the other end of the classroom, his piercing eyes fixed on them four. “Mr. Black, Mr. Lupin, Miss Evans, Mr. Potter, please be so kind as to leave the class and expect to report to me this afternoon for your punishment.” 

“Yes, sir,” accept the three boys without a single protest, maybe even happy to be relieved of this class. They pick up their wands and quills and schoolbags and head for the door, whereas Lily stutters for some seconds, wishing the boys would try to get off this one detention as they always do whenever a teacher calls them out. Seeing as no-one speaks on her behalf, she packs her things as well, keeping her head dropped to avoid anyone’s eye. 

The lecture resumes as soon as she shuts the door behind her, doing her best to prove she’s not an infant by not slamming the door. Luckily for them, her three classmates are standing on the hall and she doesn’t need to wander around the Castle to find them. 

“Well, thank you for that,” she scowls, dropping her school supplies on the floor. “Not only am I missing a lecture primal for my OWLs concerning a spell I still haven’t mastered, but I’ll be wasting an entire afternoon fulfilling a detention instead of studying because of you three,” although her accusatory voice is addressed to only one of the boys. 

“None of this would have happened if you could have kept your mouth shut and let us explain,” scowls Sirius. Outraged, Lily turns towards him, disbelieving he should be on James’s side. Sirius and her have been talking occasionally this year and she’d slowly opened up to him. She thought they were getting somewhere, but this diminishes any kind of relationship they could have gotten at. 

“Of course you’re defending him,” she yells, crossing her arms. 

“This time he’s worth deserving, Evans ! He didn’t do anything personally!” 

“Then why can’t you tell me what happened to Peter? Is he dying?” 

“Wha--No, of course not! We told you, if he’s not here right now it’s only because Madame Pomfrey ordered him to rest for a couple days! He’s not dying!” shrieks Sirius. 

“I ask you, be honest with me for once in your life and tell me what the hell is going on!”

“Lily, we want to tell you. We wish we could,” promises James, somehow feeling the worse guilt and remorse for not opening up to Lily when she asks him to so desperately. 

“What kind of secret are you guys keeping this time?! What kind of prank--” 

“It’s not for a prank,” Remus interjects her, serious but concerned voice. His whispers plaster how much he’s aching for something Lily doesn’t understand and so intensifies her lack of trust. “Lily, if we told you, we’d be risking our necks. And you’d be in a difficult position as well. Please believe us when we say that not telling you what’s happened is meant to protect you.” 

She eyes them all in turn, suspiciously, ending with James, who can barely keep her glare for more than two seconds before he drops his head. She knows his body language: he’d like to please her, tell her everything, but something bigger than himself stops him. Who knows what’s that--Lily didn’t think he cared for anything besides himself. 

“Protect you four, you mean,” she replies, looking back at Remus. 

He tilts his head, not being able to deny the accusation. 

“It’s a bad time,” he says cryptically. 

“You guys seem to be in pretty deep trouble,” Lily reckons, slowly. Somehow her anger has vanished and has been replaced with mistrust first, now fear. It almost moves James, but he knows better than to show it in front of Lily. “Are you OK? D’you need help?” 

“With all due respects, there’s nothing you could do,” says James and this time, she isn’t hurt by his words--she’d expected to hear something like that. 

“Is McGonagall or any of the teachers aware of whatever it is you’re planning or taking part in?” she insists, hoping that if she cannot help them, at least some adult figure is on the loop and will protect or defend those four if they needed to. 

They all snicker at the same time, crashing her hopes. 

“Same difference,” explains Sirius. “For now, no-one can know.” 

“But you could tell me somewhere in the future?” presses Lily. The “for now” didn’t escape her attention for a second. 

Now their reaction is varied, some sighs, some shrugs, undecided. Lily prefers not to ask what factors are involved in telling her now or within months or couple years, but knows at the same time she wouldn’t be getting any answer. 

“Perhaps,” grants Remus in the end, because James’ and Sirius’ looks had fallen down to him. 

Lily agrees with a non-committed noise and a slow nod of her head. Still eyeing them all suspiciously, she starts to kneel to take her schoolbag, when James reaches out and hands it out to her. She grabs it without looking at his eyes nor thanking him and makes the move to turn around, but stops mid-gesture. 

“You know, be careful,” she begs them, still worried. She knows the riddle won’t leave her mind all day and probably the next couple of weeks and she’ll be keeping an eye on them, just in case. “Ending up in the infirmary--don’t make it a habit, please.” 

They smile encouragingly at her, but she’s uncertain it’ll help her state of mind.   
“We will,” promises Sirius, when he notices his mistake. “I mean--We will be careful. Won’t make it a habit of ours.” 

The mix-up makes Lily laugh, something none of the boys had predicted would happen again so soon, and afterwards she nods, thanking the effort and Sirius’ promise. 

“I know you’re not allowing me to visit him,” she says and by their looks, her hunch was correct from the start, “but do give him a hug from me and my well-wishes.” 

“Okay,” accepts Remus, looking a bit more cheerful than earlier. 

“Will do,” promises James once more. 

“I’m going to go now,” she reports. “To the Common Room. Please go anywhere else and don’t bother me.” 

Behind her, she hears chuckles from the three boys--seeing how, beyond her worry, she’s returned to her usual bossy way of being. She rolls her eyes and turns a corner to get to the staircases. 

She doesn’t know, however, that the laughter dies out quite soon, much sooner than the usual coming from those guys; they actually don’t have many reasons to joke and prank up and down the Castle anymore these days. All of a sudden the serious and gloomy faces come back, the mood ominous once more, still staring at the hallway Evans ran off to. 

“Should we have told her?” asks Sirius slowly. 

“No,” replies James, that single word hurting his soul. He reaches out for his school bag, hanging it from his shoulders, and his friends do the same while headed towards the opposite direction of Lily’s, towards the hospital wing. 

“Maybe some day,” he grants, sorrow in his voice. “But let me remind you, we could go to jail for a long time, if she reported us to the authorities.”

“Sounds like you have little faith in the woman that you supposedly love,” chuckles Sirius. 

“I do,” promises James, stopping on his tracks to emphasize the words. “I do love her, I do have faith in her, but as of now, she hates my gut. I reckon she’d be only too happy if she could send me away for life.” 

“Don’t be stupid,” replies Remus, his voice a whisper. “We’d be joining you on the same trip. I don’t think she hates us that much.” 

At James’ other side, Sirius bursts out laughing, confirming Remus’s words. Even if she wouldn’t have minded James disappearance back in first year, she wouldn’t do that to Sirius, Remus or much less, Peter. They’d dare to say she actually cares about them. 

James jumps cut Sirius’ laughter by hitting him on the ribs with his elbow and then, he nods towards Remus. The lad’s even more crestfallen than Evans herself. 

“Why so gloomy, Moody?” asks Sirius, a joke that doesn’t do well with the boy’s feelings. 

The boy doesn’t answer, doesn’t dare to do so, but drops his head; and James sighs, understanding what ails Remus even if he hasn’t uttered a word. 

“Please tell me it’s not remorse again,” he begs, although already knowing what the answer’s going to be. And he’s proven right: Remus starts explaining himself once more, desperate tone. 

“What you’re doing is insane. Like you said, you three could end up in jail, probably for life. And knowing you’re doing this for _me_ \--”

“I knew we shouldn’t have told you,” sighs Sirius. 

“If you hadn’t, Pete could have ended dead instead of merely wounded,” Remus reminds him in a scowl. “And that’s another reason why you have to stop this madness. It’s dangerous, guys. You don’t know what you’re doing, _you’re underage, for Pete’s sake,_ you are risking your lives as if you didn’t care--” 

“But we do care,” interjects Sirius, his eyebrows frowned upon the accusation. “That’s exactly why we’re doing this, Moony.” 

“Well, it’s for all the wrong reasons, then!” 

“It’s because you need us,” replies James flatly, just as outraged as Sirius himself. “You undergo a horrible and painful transformation once every month. If we can help ease that pain and sorrow a bit, you can bet your ass we’re going to do it. Should have realized we’d come up with something like this from the moment we confronted you about your lycanthropy.” 

“Would you please don’t say that word?!” begs Remus, looking around in case someone was sneaking up on them. “And I did imagine you’d plan something no-one in their right mind would think of, but it didn’t occur to me that it’d be this craziness!!” 

“You’re blowing this out of proportion,” Sirius scowls. 

“No, I’m not, not really. You’re the ones who aren’t taking this seriously enough!” replies Remus. 

“We knew we’d face some challenges,” accepts James. “A few bumps and bruises along the way are just a small price to pay.” 

“A few--” Remus scoffs incredulously, disbelieving that James should describe it _that_ way. Although, on second thoughts, that’s exactly what he should have expected from the man. “Keeping a mandrake leave on your mouths for a whole month was a struggle. What happened to Pete was just a small example of what could happen to you three morons!” 

“Moony--” sighs Sirius, but this time he doesn’t let him speak. 

“You’re just idiots. You could have waited until we graduated, you might have grown smarter, more powerful, it could have been safer.” 

“Come on, you couldn’t wait seven years till we graduated from Hogwarts.” 

“No, you were only twelve when you decided to become Animagi!!” 

“Jeez--will you please not say that word out loud?!” begs James, looking above his shoulder, but every student’s at some lesson and there’s no teacher to be seen. 

“And what’s worse, you dragged Peter into this insanity!” 

“We asked, he agreed.” 

“Well, of course he agreed! He also agreed to sneak into the girl’s bathrooms and set off some fireworks! He’d say yes to anything you’d suggest!” 

“Moony,” begs Sirius, tired voice, because this is only the one hundredth time they’ve engaged this debate and they’re quite tired about it and, second of all, they’re reaching the infirmary already. “It’s OK. Stop babbling. This is happening whether you want it or not.” 

“I--don’t--want--it!” he shrieks. “I should go see McGonagall right now!” 

Both Sirius and James stop walking, face Remus and raise their eyebrows at him, with inquisitiveness. Remus then sighs deeply, raising his hands on the air. He wouldn’t do such a thing no more than Evans would report them to the Staff. 

“You’re mad,” he sentences, resuming the walk. 

“We established that back in first year,” replies Sirius, too eager and happy for Remus’ liking. “Now, when we manage it--” 

“If you manage it,” interjects Remus. “You’re still a long way to go, Siri.” 

“When we manage to become Animagi,” resumes James as if Remus had never spoken, “your transformations will change for the better a hundred times. You won’t be alone and our company might just make them a little more bearable.” 

“And that’s just another one of your stupid theories,” scowls Remus. “I could attack you.” 

“Go right ahead,” replies Sirius nonchalantly, shrugging. “We all know your bite wouldn’t turn us into werewolves.” 

“So long as you stay animals.” 

“We’re not that stupid, you know? Of course we’ll remain animals as long as the transformations last,” promises James. 

“Oh, but you’re inviting an actual rat to my monthly adventures,” scowls Remus. “I could kill him, you guys. Swallow him whole. And I wouldn’t even realize I’d killed one of my best friends.” 

“We won’t allow that to happen, Moony,” promises James, his voice dead serious. “Plus, your animal counterpart we’ll get used to our Animagi forms soon enough and see us as your friends, not your enemy or your pray.” 

“Second stupid theory you base your hopes on. You don’t know anything!” 

“We’re willing to try, though,” replies James. 

Two steps in front of them, Sirius all of a sudden stops and whirls; and so Remus and James realize they’re standing before the double wooden doors of the infirmary. 

“Are we also willing to drop the subject for a while?” demands Sirius. 

Both Remus and James inhale deeply and nod at the same time. Approvingly, Sirius turns around and imitates them before plucking up the courage to knock on the doors and entering without waiting for an answer. 

Early this morning only one bed, Pete’s, was occupied; now there’s another student laying on one of the infirmary beds, eyes closed, seemingly sleeping peacefully. At the other side of the infirmary, Madame Pomfrey raises from her desk and approaches the three Marauders with fierce in her eyes. 

“What are you three doing here? Classes aren’t over yet,” she demands, stopping in the middle of the corridor so they won’t be able to step forwards. 

“We might have been expelled from class,” confesses Sirius nonchalantly. 

“Pending detention this afternoon,” adds James, just so Madame Pomfrey sees they didn’t get off with a simple warning. 

“And wanted to use that time to visit our good friend,” Remus finishes up. 

Madame Pomfrey rolls her eyes at them. She might be thinking, and rightfully so, that they did something on purpose in the midst of their class to get banned from the lecture and come back to the infirmary--just to upset her, rather than visiting Peter. They can’t really blame her, they’ve done something similar many times, on Remus’ behalf, so he didn’t have to recover on his own. 

“What happened to him?” inquires Sirius, pointing at the Hufflepuff student with a nod of his head. 

“He’s running a fever,” explains Madame Pomfrey, not a bit worried about his condition. “He’s going to be alright by tomorrow morning. OK, you can stay, but please do not disturb him or me. Be quiet.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” promise the three boys. 

They push aside the curtains hiding Pete’s bed and need a couple seconds to recover from the sight: both his arms are in respective slings, another bandage all around his forehead. Even so, when the patient opens his eyes and sees Remus, James and Sirius, he greets them with a warm smile and they cannot correspond to him. While Moony takes the time to pull back the curtains, Sirius and James move forwards to both sides of the bed, kneeling to be eye-level with Pete, remembering in time not to reach for Pete’s hands due to his injuries. 

“How’re you feeling?” they all ask in a whisper--they’re not bound, today, to break Madame Pomfrey’s rules and be kicked out of the infirmary. 

“A bit groggy,” laughs Peter. 

They all realize that the injuries can’t be hurting him thanks to the pain killers Madame Pomfrey has apparently given Peter by an intravenous line--that’s reassuring, although it doesn’t help them feel any better. 

“So you got kicked out from class?” demands Peter, finding it all too amusing. 

“Yeah, we did,” confirms Sirius. 

“Wanted to see you again,” adds James, as usual completing each other’s sentences like two brothers. 

“It had been too long since this morning,” winks Remus. Despite everything, he’s standing the furthest from the bed, not daring to step any closer, as if he could injure Peter any more just by his proximity. Not even Sirius and the fire in his eyes can convince Moony to step any closer. 

“Thank you,” appreciates Peter, before he starts giggling. 

It’s such a normal gesture coming from him that induced by the drugs, he just can’t stop laughing--and his three friends catch it too, they start giggling quietly until they can’t hold it back and few minutes in, they’re laughing out loud in the infirmary. They are probably disrupting the Hufflepuff student’s rest and Madame Pomfrey could actually kick them out of there, but she’s nowhere to be seen for the next minutes. 

Or maybe, she just thought that a bit of joy and laughter was exactly the medicine both Peter and the rest of the Marauders needed. Because ever since Peter was hospitalized they’ve all looked crestfallen to her eyes--the amount of pranks registered by the professors has certainly decreased a whole lot--and giving them a little peace of mind seemed like the right call. 

After all, it’s not just Remus--whatever he might think or say--who’s to blame because of what happened to Pete, but Sirius and James are also accountable for the two broken arms and severe concussion Peter suffered after a failed attempt at transformation. He’s taking the longest time of them all, and also the most painful, to achieve becoming an Animagus--and that’s taking a toll on all their feelings. They can’t help him any more than they’re doing already, all that’s left is Pete’s own willpower and strength, and there’s no way they could talk him out of it at this point. 

So all they can actually do at this point, however powerless that makes them feel, is to encourage him and sit by his side throughout his forthcoming missteps and accidents.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James's struggling to get away from Filch after one mischief. Remus comes to the rescue. Fast-forward to sixth year. I might add some more chapters about the Marauders' early years at Hogwarts, but from now on the story takes place on their sixth year and beyond.

He hears Filch irregular pace and heavy breathing approaching and curses under his breath. He can’t go back now. 

He keeps running, glancing over his shoulder to the corner he should have turned instead of the one he’s taken. But it’s too late now, and Filch sure is committed to get him this time. 

His plan, though quite perfect, if he might say so himself, hasn’t gone as planned. And now Peter has his invisibility cloak, Remus the map, Sirius must be safe already in the Common Room, and he’s got nowhere to go. He thought he knew where exactly was the hidden passageway of the third corridor and assured Remus he didn’t need the map anymore than he’d do, but when James finally got there, he turned the wrong corner. And now he can’t turn back or Filch will see him. His only choice is to keep going on--Filch won’t be able to keep up this pace much longer. He's just an old man and James is in very good shape, though girls won't acknowledge so, thanks to Quidditch practices. Maybe James’ll be able to get to the library and disguise as any other diligent student. Or, even better, he could try to make it to the fifth corridor passageway. Once there, he’d be safe. 

 That is, until he meets Peeves right in front of him. 

Goddamit. 

This time James curses audibly, and Filch hears it, and runs a little bit faster. 

“Potty, Pottery-Potter,” greeted Peeves with a loud voice, making sure any professor walking nearby could hear him. 

“Please, Peeves, let me go,” James tries half-heartedly. He’s tried to get Peeves to their side since they got to Hogwarts, with little to no result. For some bloody reason, the troublesome ghost will only listen to Sirius, when he does--whatever the hell he does to avoid half the detentions he should get. But James, by himself and in a little bit of a rush, he won’t get any favors from Peeves today. 

“Running again from Filch? What have you done now?”

“He’s near, right, darling?” says Filch’s voice. And as he was fearing, right when James looks back, he sees Mrs. Norris turning the corner and meow, waiting obediently for her master now that she’s got the prey in sight. 

“Peeves, you have to let me go--” tries James once more. 

“How many more years will it take you to understand Peeves is no good?” asks a new voice, familiar, though there’s no-one else to be seen. Surely, that has never once stopped James. He understands in a fraction of a second what’s going on and runs towards the voice, colliding with one of his best friends. Remus hushes a complain and James hides under the invisibility cloak, finding the other Marauder with a hand covering his nose. He gives him an apologetic look, but they can’t get distracted now, as Filch turns the corner. However, all they exchange is a knowing look and a big smirk while Remus puts in James’ hand some dungbombs. Without saying anything, they know what their escaping route is and so they prepare themselves, wands and dungbombs at the ready. 

Filch is standing right in the middle of the corridor, looking utterly frustrated as the only other person he sees is Peeves. He looks around, grumbling. He knows perfectly well no-one could get pass by Mrs. Norris or the ghost without either of them making a fuss. 

Just when Filch is two steps closer than Peeves than from the Marauders, the two boys set off part of the dungbombs, saving the rest in case they need them, throwing them towards the opposite direction. Filch turns at once and without a second thought he runs that way, followed closely by Mrs. Norris, giving the boys free-way to get to the corridor on their left. Just in case, they cast a Silencing Charm around the Invisibility Cloak and they don’t take it off around themselves until they’re inside the passageway, gasping in the darkness. They could see Peeves fleeing the moment Filch was distracted, which leads the Marauders to think that the ghost himself is the author of some other crime. But they don’t worry about that right at this moment--Filch is the one who’ll go nuts when he finds out. They're safe and they've escaped a hell of a detention. 

They wait panting until the door closes behind them and they are left in utter silence and darkness. Still, they don’t say a word for a full minute, as if hoping Filch or any other teacher or student won’t be close enough to hear them. 

“You’re a life-safer, mate,” says James once his breath is even again. 

“No problem. Always have a Marauder’s back, right?” 

“Right. Thanks again. Now--did I hurt that pretty face too badly?” James lights up the tip of his wand, approaching it to Remus’ face, checking now the consequences of their collision. 

“I’m fine--” tries to say Remus, but James isn’t satisfied till his friend stops budging and he sees a normal looking nose. “I’ve broken it countless of times, I assure you, I know how it feels and it’s not broken.” 

The mention of the werewolf condition makes James step back at once with a gloomy face. Though they usually joke about it with the rest of the Marauders, specially when planning running wildly across the fields with he wolf as their animagi forms, it isn’t pretty all in all and it compels him to change the subject. 

“Peter and Sirius made it alright?” 

“Yes, they’re already in the Common Room. You can thank ‘em later that they were watching you on the Map.” 

“You don’t say. I couldn’t clean one more night that god-damn trophy room.” 

Laughing now, as if they hadn’t run into any kind of trouble, they walk at ease along the corridor, the only lights coming from their wands, knowing Padfoot and Wormtail’ll be waiting for them, and they’ll laugh at great length at the small inconvenience and at the fact that for six years, now, they’ve been able to distract Filch with small devices as such and he still hasn’t catch up on them.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night when Sirius Black ran away from Grimmauld Place and went to the only home he knew: James's, appearing at his doorstep with one foot already in the grave.

He wouldn’t have heard Pads calling him weren’t it for his obsession for Quidditch, which had led him to leave his room in the middle of the night with a dressing gown, his wand and a nice, warm cup of tea and camp at the library to devour the latest edition of the best Quidditch maneuvers that they got the day before and his parents hadn’t let him stay awake to finish. 

That’s what he was planning to do, when he’s first heard his brother’s voice calling to him, without realizing that he’d last left the mirror at the library. Being this late at night and sitting alone in the middle of the night at the library, at first he thought it was a dream or his beat brain; but the nervousness of the voice, its hysteria, its exhaustion, its need, that’s not something his mind would have created. It’s something too nightmarish to be a product of his mind. It couldn’t have been qualified even as a bad, sick joke. So realizing what’s going on, he drops the cup, which shatters when it hits the floor, the book and the wand and takes the mirror from the shelf it was on. 

The image he sees of Sirius is one that he instantly knows will haunt him for the rest of his days. The boy can barely hold the mirror steady--and that’s when James realizes Padfoot’s laying somewhere, that the mirror’s standing over his chest, and that the movement of his chest and hence, breathing, is too fast and erratic to be normal--and even if he could, he wouldn’t be able to look straight at the mirror, since can’t even open his left eye because of a nasty cut on the eyebrow, which has swelled up beyond belief. It’s obvious at a glance he’s been beaten almost to death--and probably that was the goal. Beyond his erratic breathing, he’s covered in blood, presumably from the many injuries and wounds up and down his body. He’s extremely pale and weak and has a hard time finding words. 

“Merlin’s pants--” scowls James, stuttering, a yell which seems to awaken the boy. 

“Prongs,” says Sirius, closer to moaning than talking. “Knight Bus in five.” 

Even considering the brevity of the message, James’ already standing before Padfoot finished talking, stopping by his room to get some money just in case. It’s obvious Sirius has just fled home, after yet another hell of a beating, and he probably didn’t think (or didn’t have the time) to take any money, so he better take care of any possible problem ahead; since they are probably facing worst case scenario. He grabs his wand, goes back to his room and takes who knows how much money from the drawer before running down the stairs, all without once dropping the discussion. 

“Padfoot, what the hell--?” 

“Prongs, I can’t --”

He understands his brother’s exhaustion and despair, beyond levels he can’t even begin to imagine, at once and forgets this issue. Padfoot doesn’t usually talk about these beatings, not even to him, not in private; and on the other hand, he may be too out of it to actually be able to maintain a conversation. But he must keep him talking, or at least, awake and responsive, James thinks, as he’s opening the front doors. The cold night air hits him like a cold shower, a big contrast with being warm and comfy inside the house, but he barely notices it as he runs towards the street. 

“It’s OK, I’m on my way,” he says, running as fast as he can, which is a considerable speed thanks to the Quidditch trainings, but still he’s wishing to have his broomstick within reach. “Hang on in there, you hear me? Keep talking to me,” he begs, not sure if Sirius can actually manage to stay conscious. 

“I’m not--” 

“Talk to me”, he orders, finally leaving the Manor boundaries and reaching the road. “Have you given any more thoughts to that idea we had? To hex the Sorting Hat so no-one would understand him for the Sorting Ceremony.” 

Sirius smiles weakly. “That’s what I--” He stops mid-track, not being able to finish the sentence as he lets out a low moan, closing his eyes, in an attempt to push away the pain he’s suffering from one or another wound. At this, James tenses even more, suffering along his brother, begging for the Bus Knight to appear already. 

“I’m sorry, Prongs, mate,” whispers Sirius a few seconds later, when the pain subsides, or he’s able to conceal it. 

“Don’t you **ever** \--” 

Before he can finish his sentence, the Bus Knight finally materializes before him with the usual bang and James puts away the mirror, climbing into the bus as soon as the doors open. He hands the conductor all the coins he’s got without thinking twice about it --he’s got other concerns in his mind. 

“Keep the change,” he yells over his shoulder, already passing by the conductor. 

He’s primarily focused on checking every bed he crosses by, until, finally, to his horror, he stumbles upon this one traveler covered in blood, half-dead over the bed. Seeing his actual injuries on the flesh is way worse than imagining them; even if he was up to it, he couldn’t count the amount of open wounds on his chest, arms and legs. He can actually see some bones through the open flesh, the one on his left thigh a clear example. His right arm’s resting in a position that’s not humanly possible. His wounds are especially severe on his feet, presumably both by his parents’ doing and himself, by walking around barefoot for Merlin knows how much; obviously, he couldn’t have Apparated here, or he’d endangered his life. Or rather, he would have accomplished his parents’ wish, succumbing to death.

The extent of his injuries almost makes him pass out or puke, but he stands on his feet, knowing he isn’t allowed to have a nervous breakdown at this moment, in front of Sirius. Padfoot’s the one who needs help. 

“Don’t you ever say sorry for coming to us to save your life,” he finishes his last statement. 

His yell awakes Sirius, who opens his good eye and looks around for a few seconds before focusing on James. But he still needs a few moments to recognize him; only then, when he knows he’s finally on the hands of a more than friendly figure, his body relaxes visibly. He even shifts on the bed, trying to stand up, but he doesn’t even manage to roll over, which leads James to believe one or two ribs are broken as well. Before doing anything stupid such as allowing Sirius to hurt himself even more, James steps forwards and places his arms behind Sirius’ shoulders and knees, holding him like a baby and making him cry in pain for all the injuries, but it’s the quickest way to get him out of the Bus. Without addressing a word to the conductor or anyone, he simply focuses on his living room. Though he has a hard time concentrating, holding the nearly corpse of his brother in his arms, after some seconds he manages to Apparate back home, in the middle of the living room. Sirius lets out a loud yell of pain, which makes James shrink, knowing he’s caused this suffering, even when he’s tried to be as gentle as possible and to not move him too much. 

With a flick of his wand all the lights in the living room come to life; another one, and Padfoot’s hovering mid-air, in a strange, creepy position, with his arms, legs and head falling down in strange angles, but at least he won’t be in pain anymore. But from this position he’s horrified by the clear blood loss, staining the couch (not that that’s his biggest concern at the moment); luckily, an Aresto Momentum will hold it for now. But he needs to act quickly. 

There’s one more thing he must try before asking for help: he casts, directing his wand to Padfoot’s body, a couple of healing spells. At first nothing happens, nor good or bad, but then the boy starts yelling louder than ever before; if he isn’t cursing every Potter and Black family member and cursing in every language he knows is simply because he can’t focus his head to form the words, much less pronounce them out loud. James doesn’t need his brother’s scowls and reproaches before lowering his wand; he should have guessed he couldn’t have cured with magic what’s been caused by Dark Magic. 

“STIFFY!” he yells at the top of his lungs, knowing, even so, that he wouldn’t wake his parents this late at night even if he started playing the drums. But the house-elf appears at once beside him, and before she bows and greets him as she should do when a Master’s called her, she sees the figure that’s hovering couple feet above the ground, and all the customary treatment to one’s Master’s forgotten. 

“Master Sirius!” he squeals in fright. 

“Stiffy, I’m going to need your help,” says James, focusing both of them, keeping his mind cool only because he knows that’s what Padfoot needs right now. “Can you use your magic to heal his wounds?” 

The house-elf looks at him uncertain, confirming James’ thoughts, that not even house-elf magic can counteract Dark Magic. But before he gives up on the idea, Stiffy nods once, swallowing the complaints and the tears, and turns towards Sirius, who hasn’t even acknowledged the house-elf’s presence. The creature snaps her fingers once and --the yelling starts again, followed, this time, by twisting in agony. 

“OK, that’s enough now, STOP!” orders James at once, without looking at the house-elf, already summoning from the bathroom some towels and bowls. Stiffy turns in time to grab the three objects and places them on the floor before bowing towards James, afraid, as was to be expected, that she’s done something wrong.

“Don’t worry about it; I didn’t think house-elf magic would have made any difference. I just had to try,” he explains with a soft and calming voice he doesn’t know how he’s managed to utter. “Will you please fill these bowls with water, and get all the first-aid kits we may have. Now.” 

Bowing again, the house-elf disappears at once, leaving James with Sirius. He doesn’t dare to look over at his brother, or he’ll lose all focus and strength; instead, he turns to summon Dittany and Murtlap Essence salves from his room, that’s laying there due to his Quidditch trainings, and from his parents’ room, due to their arthritis. By the time they get to his free hand, some first-aid kits have already appeared by his side, as well as the two bowls, filled with warm water. Stiffy appears again at that moment, when James is headed towards Sirius’ mouth with a pain potion. The injured boy, somehow, seems to recognize the potion and uselessly, tries to get away from it. Uselessly both because of his weak efforts and because James won’t stand none of his stupidity today. 

“Pads, you’re drinking this, I swear, or so help me, I’ll pour it down your throat myself.” 

Though his words upset Stiffy, they seem to do the trick with Sirius, who weakly nods once before opening his mouth reluctantly, looking down at James. Before he reconsiders, James opens the bottle and pours the potion’s contents inside his mouth and a few moments after, Sirius seems to relax just a little bit, his muscles loosening. Of course, they’re aware the effects of the potion won’t last long. And so, James turns towards Stiffy, who looks even more concerned than he does. 

“I want to save his ass before calling my parents,” he says. “Can you help me?” 

“Of course, Master Potter,” she squeals. 

“Great. Let’s start with getting him out of these clothes,” he suggests. 

They’re simply some old drags Sirius must have grabbed before fleeing, but in the short lapse of time he’s been wearing them, they’re already stuck to his body and wounds thanks to the blood, mixed with flesh, blood and pus. Before none of them acknowledges this out loud, James' already cast the scissors from the kitchen and transfigured another one, handing one to Stiffy. Starting at the easy areas, wetting the clothes with water, they chop without minding Sirius’ clothes, piece by piece, being careful when they’re too close to the wounds--a number higher than any of them’d feared. In the end they realize they won’t get all of it out and give up, but James curses under his breath when he sees the work ahead of them. He maybe should call for his parents. 

But he knows only too well what he’s supposed to do. Sadly, he’s had tons of practice with both Remus and Sirius. He then runs a checking spell to examine his injuries. As he’d thought, Padfoot’s right arm and left leg are broken, as well as two ribs and some other injuries he hadn’t seen before: the right wrist and the tendons on both his ankles. That is, leaving aside all of his cuts and bruises. 

“Let’s clean the wounds,” he orders before letting the horror or the anger get him, handing Stiffy one of the towels and cleaning potions, wetting the towel with Murtlap Essence abundantly. “You start from the feet and move upward; I’ll go upside down.” 

Without once questioning his orders--he hopes it’s because she believes they make sense, and not because of blind trust on him--Stiffy gets the towel and starts working immediately on the injuries on Sirius’ feet. After some seconds, James does the same; and, as he feared, the yelling resumes at once. That’s why he’s chosen the side by Sirius’ head, so he can soothe him down with calm and reassuring words. 

“It’s OK, it’s gonna be over soon. I’m sorry, Pads, my brother.”

He doesn’t know if Sirius can actually hear him, as he’s in no way able to answer back, but in any case these words help him to calm down and not stop working, so he keeps talking the whole time, even when he’s working on his wrists, every time he yells in pain, which is way too often than what he can handle. Finally, Stiffy and he are done cleaning the last wounds. . . On Sirius’ chest. There’s still his back. 

“We have to turn him around,” whispers Stiffy very slowly and very low. Fearing James’ reaction, because this will hurt Sirius’ even more, and she’s seen her Master shrink at every yell master Sirius uttered. 

“It won’t hurt him,” replies James. He’s thought of that; Sirius’ hovering thanks to a levitating charm, so turning him around will, indeed, be painless. 

Even Stiffy takes a deep breath when Sirius’ back’s facing them without a new deafening yell from the injured boy. Without saying a word, they both set to work at once, following the same method James planned before. After twenty minutes or so, he can turn around again Sirius’ body, checking all of his injuries, allowing both him and themselves a couple seconds to gulp for air. Without blood coming out of them, and having cleaned all the blood and pus from the wounds, he does look better. And worse at the same time. They’re not even close to finish. 

“Let’s close them,” orders James.

He’s already got the Dittany salve on his hand, and getting a new, clean towel (they’ve needed four each one up to this moment), he and Stiffy lean over once again. And one more time, as soon as they apply their towels with as much delicacy they can master, the patient starts yelling at once from the unbearable pain. But after this, he’ll feel much, much better. 

Temporarily. Since, once they’re done, they still have to reattach the dislocated shoulder. 

“Pads, I’m sorry, you know the drill,” he whispers, though Sirius' been out of it for a while now, despite the pain he’s been suffering. “This is going to hurt beyond words. I’m sorry.”

And before Sirius awakes for real and kills him, he relocates the shoulder with Stiffy’s help. Once again Sirius lets out a long, loud yell; but after some seconds he calms down again and this time, it’s for real. The worse is over. Stiffy knows as well as he does, since she too lets out a deep breath, now that Sirius’ breathing’s returning to normal. Needing to say the words out loud, even if it is only to himself, James leans in again. 

“I’m so sorry, Pads. It’s OK now, we’re finished, you can rest,” he murmurs, caressing Sirius’ good shoulder in a reassuring way, exhaling all the air he was holding back unconsciously. It seems Sirius’ already succumbing to the pain killers, falling slowly into a deep, deserved sleep. 

“You can leave the bandage part to me, it’s fine,” says James, avoiding Stiffy’s eyes, as he prepares the scissors and bandages. “Clean all this mess and then call my parents”, he says, calmer too, setting to work once more before he Apparates to 12 Grimmauld Place and kills Sirius’ parents. Stiffy walks slowly and quietly around him, grabbing all the towels, salves and potions they’ve used, while James bandages, sadly with expert hands, the minor wounds.

“Stiffy?” he asks again without raising his eyes from Sirius. At once he hears how the house-elf stops in front of him, willing to comply some new orders. “Send Olly to Remus Lupin’s and Peter Pettigrew’s, explaining what’s happened. And. . . Also to Lily Evans,” he adds as an afterthought, unsure of his decision. He and her might not see eye to eye just yet, but her and Padfoot certainly do and she'll want to know what's happened to him. Furthermore, with her being here, they just might be able to march to Grimmauld's Place and kill those bastards. 

“Certainly, sir,” she says, bowing till touching the floor. 

James thanks her with a nod of his head, though he hasn’t moved his eyes from the injuries and bandages. He barely hears the house-elf leaving the room, headed upstairs, to the main dormitory, where his parents would sleep at least for a couple more hours. It only takes Stiffy five minutes to wake them up; he hears the hurried steps getting out of bed and running (or walking as fast as a couple of eighty-year-old wizards can move around) across the hall, climbing down the stairs and stopping mid-track when they see both their sons at the living room, one of them half-dead and the other, apparently, saving his life. Both of them snap out of the blur at the same time and step forward to James, both already evaluating the extense of Sirius’ injuries and his pulse. 

“Merlin’s pants, son, what’s happened?” demands Fleamont in shock.

“What does it look like to you?” replies James at his father’s comment, sharply.

His parents understand what James’ suffering--they share the despair--and don’t tell him off for once.

“He got a beating. Another one. But this time he had the guts to flee and come here. He was very badly injured. I've taken care of most his wounds. He’s alive--barely, I must say”, he explains with venom on his voice, focusing on the work. 

“Why haven’t you called us before?" demands Euphemia, focused on checking her son’s work. 

“I didn’t want to waste a single second,” replies James sharply. “His life depended on it, quite literally.” 

“Indeed,” agrees Euphemia, without glancing up at her son. 

Not that anybody’s attention’s focused on James or each other; the three of them are too concentrated on Sirius, James still bandaging, his parents checking Sirius’ injuries and his work to heal them. As they don’t say anything, he guesses they approve his doing. 

“All these cuts and open injuries and he hasn’t lost blood?” notices Fleamont. 

“He was,” scowls James. “I used the Aresto Momentum.” 

“Smart”, congratulates his father, resting a hand on James’ shoulder. He nods, focused on his work, as he can’t really tell them he learnt that trick due to Remus’ condition, which is also how he learnt to properly bandage broken limbs. If his mother, who worked at St. Mungo’s for more than ten years, is staying quiet and doesn’t mention the hundreds of mistakes he’s made so far, means he’s done a hell of a job. 

“Seems you’re doing fine by yourself, son.” 

“Perhaps,” he grants. “But if you two didn’t mind--” 

He doesn’t have to finish his sentence. Before he knows it, a pair of hands have taken the bandages from his hands and someone else is gently pushing him away from his brother’s body. Being too exhausted to argue, James releases the bandages and scissors, raises his hands in the air and allows to be pushed away towards the sofa, where he sits down due to his father’s insistence, while his mother’s running a full check on Sirius. 

“Stiffy,” he says with calm and soft voice, as the house-elf appears by his side. “Get the kettle on, will you?” 

“Certainly, sir,” she says, disappearing as fast as she’d showed up. 

James leans on the sofa, getting comfortable now that the worse is over, letting his parents take over and do the work now. Fleamont joins in the full check, wanting to know as well the full extent of Sirius’ injuries, and they conclude the same as James did only half an hour ago. 

“Dislocated right shoulder, broken right wrist, both ankle’s tendons destroyed, two ribs broken, apart from the nasty cut on the eyebrow, the left thigh and the chest,” they summarize after some seconds. 

James doesn’t even try to hide a scowl; his parents feel the same, in any case. The good hand, both his legs. Doesn’t seem random to him. They did this so Sirius couldn’t escape, nor treat or heal his wounds with his good hand. It certainly doesn’t seem to be the first time they’ve acted like this, either. The main question is how on Earth he could manage to escape. 

Stiffy appears then with the tea and James takes the cup too gladly, trying not to think of the other cup of tea he was planning on drinking early in the night that he didn’t get to because of Sirius. He orders himself to push these thoughts aside, focusing on the good news that Padfoot’s doing better. Or, if he isn’t--James wouldn’t want to be too optimistic on this matter--at least he knows he’s done everything he could have done, since his parents only resume the bandaging till Sirius’ body is almost covered more by white bandages than flesh. 

“He’s not gonna be walking around any time soon,” adds Fleamont, checking all the injuries on both Sirius’ soles. 

“Don’t worry about it,” replies James, mindlessly drinking his tea and listening to his parents work. He’ll be Sirius’ legs for the imminent future if he needs him to be. Hell, he’s been a better mom than Walburga’s ever been during the nearly five years he’s known Sirius. This won’t exactly be a problem between them. 

At this point, both of his parents let out a deep breath. As Euphemia begins yet another examination of all of Sirius’ injuries, Fleamont caresses her arm lovingly, she nods and the man leaves the living room, towards the dormitory, Merlin knows why--James doesn’t have the strength to ask him. But in any case, he can’t stand the inactivity much longer and he’s up from the sofa before his father comes back down again. He approaches his mother quietly, while watching Sirius; and that’s how he sees his contorted face. 

“Mom?” he demands, concerned, leaving aside his tea. 

“Have you already given him a pain killer potion?” she asks calmly, looking away from her work for a minute to stare at her son with loving and reassuring eyes. 

“Of course,” he says. 

“Then I’m afraid I can’t give him more just yet,” she concludes, setting back to work. 

“ _But, Mom_ \--” 

“He’s weak; he needs to rest,” she answers finally to James’ implicit question.

Without mentioning if Sirius will actually make it alive. But it’s enough for James for the moment, as he nods a couple of times, looking down at his brother’s immobile body. He then feels a caring hand on his cheek and looks back up at his mother, who’s showing him a broad, reassuring smile.

“You did great, son; you did everything I would have done. So, don’t worry.” 

He thanks her words with another nod of his head, but he understands the words his mother isn’t pronouncing out loud; he’d have nothing to blame himself for if Sirius didn’t make it through. But she’s wrong; he’d blame himself either way. 

Instead of phrasing this thought, he sighs and leaves the room, headed towards the closest bathroom. He needs to wash his hands, up to the elbows, from Sirius’ blood. And he freshens as well his face and the back of his neck, in an attempt to stay awake. There’s no way he’s dropping off to sleep at a moment like this. 

When he comes out of the bathroom, his father’s still in his dormitory; and apparently, Euphemia has taken advantage of her solitude to run another examination on Sirius. James stops mid-track and hides behind a wall so his mother won’t see him. He wants--needs--to see his mother’s reaction to the examination. Being alone, she won’t hold back and she may express now her worries or concerns, rather than in front of her fifteen-year-old biological son who’s shaking from horror, despair and fury. And she does: after some minutes, Euphemia stands up slowly, letting out a deep sigh, before covering her mouth with two shaking hands and backs away very slowly towards the couch, where she lets herself drop, all while letting out low whimpers and watching the immobile figure on the mattress. James can guess her thoughts: despite all their efforts, it’s almost a miracle Sirius’ still alive. Who knows, actually, if he’ll wake up again. 

That’s not something James wanted to see. Though he knows it’s what he needed to see, it’s not what he was expecting, it’s not what he can handle. He rests against the wall, almost collapsing now that the emergency’s gone and they get the very bad news. He can’t take it. He can’t live without Sirius. He won’t accept his death; he won’t accept some parents could have killed their own child. He’s going to march up towards Grimmauld Place right now and make his parents pay. And if Padfoot does eventually die, his parents will follow him shortly. 

He hears heavy footsteps behind him and, before he can turn around, he feels a strong, warm, steady hand on his shoulder, caressing his cheek. It’s obvious that right now’s not the time to march over Grimmauld Place and adenge someone who’s not dead yet. And not only because revenge, simply due to common sense; better cool it off for now. Fleamont has seen as well Euphemia’s reaction, but unlike James, he’s got a weak smile on his lips; he doesn’t think the situation’s as precarious as his son does. Or even if he actually does, he can pretend better than his wife and lie to his own son. 

“Come on,” he orders softly, pushing him gently towards the living room. 

They sit around Euphemia, who greets them by grabbing tightly their hands as they answer back, both parents sending an almost reassuring smile to her son. He can’t forget the look on her face just a minute ago and, instead of answering her, he turns to look at Sirius. Fleamont and Euphemia mirror his gesture. 

His father’s the first one to break the silence. 

“I’ve been talking to Bernie and sent a letter to Charles,” says Fleamont a few minutes later, voice barely above a whisper. “Informing him we’d be fighting for Sirius Black’s full custody as in today.” 

Euphemia and James nod in acknowledge and appreciation, their thoughts expressed in this single gesture. They value his effort, but they know as well it’s political suicide to engage a fight against the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black, even if he’s the patriarch of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Potter, a title none of them has ever used in their favor, besides the advantages and influence that come from the job description, but they could never pull this of, much less on the verge of a War. Despite this fact, even if the representative of the Potters’d been James or Euphemia themselves, they’d have done exactly the same. It’s the right thing to do --and someone has to fight for this young, amazing wizard kid. If he survives this, that is. 

Stiffy appears then, coming from the kitchens, to offer all of them warm cups of tea before sitting herself on the floor by the couch, as concerned for Sirius as any of them, with a fourth tea cup on her hands. They all drink in silence, by small gulps, for Merlin knows how much time, staring at the figure in front of them, not being able to keep their eyes off him. Fearing to see at one point his last breath--or at least, that’s James’ case.

Thankfully, Sirius doesn’t take that last breath in the next couple of days and, what’s more, he shows signs of recovery. The minor injuries start to heal; and the worse wounds, gradually close and look much better, though they know there’s still a long way to full recovery. Especially given the fact that Sirius doesn’t wake up once. 

They move him up to James’ room, where he’s had a second spare bed ever since first year summer holidays, when Sirius started to come around quite often, staying some exceptional nights; now’s the best way to keep an eye on him the twenty-four hours a day, as James barely moves from his side. He takes turns watching over his brother with Euphemia, Fleamont (whose turns gradually shorten, a prudent and nice gesture from their son, so they can get the sleep they need) and also Remus and Peter, who come to the Manor couple hours after receiving James’ letter and decide, to no-one’s opposition, despite it’s nine days to the next full moon, to stay there as long as it takes for Sirius to recover. If he actually does. No-one dares to phrase it, though there’s not a soul on the house who doesn’t fear so. After all, they all talk to him, they all read to him, they all move his numb limbs in the ways Euphemia taught them so his muscles don’t damage from lack of use due to his lethargy; but despite their efforts, Sirius doesn’t once recover his consciousness. 

That is, till one week later, when Sirius starts grunting in the middle of the night, the first time he’s spoken (if it can be defined as such) or responded in any way. Remus, who was half-sleeping on a chair by Padfoot’s mattress, wakes up at once, points his wand to the closest lamp, which lights up at once, and leans in closer to Sirius, grabbing his arm, wishing for him to open his eyes or say something coherent. After some minutes, all he manages to do is whimper, squirt his eyes and barely move his fingers before dropping off again. Remus leaves the room running and wakes everyone on the Manor by yelling; and according to Euphemia, Sirius’ short awakening is a very, good sign of recovery. Though it couldn’t have last for more than two minutes, it gives all of them hope, which they very much needed at this moment. 

For the next couple of days Sirius regains consciousness punctually, barely a couple of minutes each time before dozing off again, not enough time to recognize where he is or who he is with, but it doesn’t matter that much anymore, as they’re all hopeful he’ll wake up for real eventually. In the meantime, they have another emergency regarding Remus’ transformation during the full moon, but James’ parents were also aware for that since fourth year and had prepared a safe haven where the boy could transform safely without endangering, either, the lives of those sleeping inside the Manor; he spent the night with Prongs and though it was harsher than they’d come to get used to, they both saw the end of it unscathed, though with orders of resting too. 

James is half asleep on his bed from the full moon when some grunts and scowls, that don’t come out of his mouth, wake him up. It takes him a full second to realize what’s going on--but then he jumps out of bed and kneels in front of Sirius’ mattress. He’s waking up again. 

“You know,” scowls James. “I’m going to kill your parents. I’m going to make them suffer as much as--” 

And, surprisingly, he’s stopped from his angry babbling. 

“Stop being so stupid, Prongs,” replies Sirius, the best he can. 

James is simply amazed by his response; his brother’s alive, conscious, responsive and, above all, has recognized the room, his voice and is acting as he usually does. He turns his neck and yells on the top of his lungs, hoping everybody will hear him, before facing his brother again and resuming their conversation--it’s simply been too long since he’s had a bickering with his brother to let it go away. 

“That’s like asking me to stop being the best Quidditch player on the Gryffindor team,” he says. “But Merlin’s pants, Padfoot, I’m not letting them get away with this, they’ve almost killed you,” he replies in a whisper, too worried to start yelling at the poor man just yet. “You should have let me kill them when we first knew about these abuses.” 

“Back in third grade?” asks Sirius, barely audible above the footsteps of Remus, Peter, Fleamont and Euphemia bursting into the room, almost disbelieving that Sirius can be awake for real at long last. Padfoot laughs but has to cut it short, due to his ribs, or some other wound, hurting him and he lets out a loud moan before he can stop himself. “You--You didn’t even know how to tie you shoelaces,” he adds after some seconds. 

“Both of you, knock it off, right now,” scowls Euphemia with her authoritative voice none of her children can say no to. “Sirius, dear, we’re so glad to see you awake. Don’t talk for a second; we need to check your injuries, OK?” 

He nods and, as Euphemia and Fleamont run a full examination on Sirius, the boy shifts his eyes to his brother, who’s standing roughly a feet away from his parents, not letting go of Sirius’ hand. 

“Something wrong?” asks James, concerned by the look Sirius’ giving him.

“I don’t exactly remember what’s happened,” he confesses in a whisper. His words are met with astonishing faces and a couple of uncontained squeals coming from Stiffy and Peter before they receive stern looks from Fleamont. 

“You. . . You took a beating,” starts James, stepping closer to him. 

“Yeah, I figured that much,” interjects Sirius, trying to laugh, but stopping himself before too long. At that, Euphemia places a soft hand on his chest, remembering him caringly not to push it too much. “I meant how am I here. I’m guessing I’m not still at Grimmauld Place, or have you actually managed to kill my parents?” 

“ _They wouldn’t let me_ ,” scowls James, signaling his parents with a nod of his head. “No, you got here with the Knight Bus. Do you remember taking it?” 

Sirius turns his head to look at the ceiling--or avoid everybody’s stare--and closes his eyes, trying to remember. Everyone on the room stays silent and quiet, letting him take his time. These memories may be too painful for him to manage to recover. 

“I think I do,” he says finally. “I didn’t have any money on me and tried to walk for a while. But I wasn't wearing shoes and my feet began to bleed. . .” he whispers. He then opens his eyes, looking now for James, waiting for him to corroborate his story. “And I called you.” 

“That’s right,” confirms Prongs, resting a caring hand on Sirius’ shoulder. “I paid off the conductor, took you in here and took care of your wounds.” 

“Remind me to give you that money back at some point.”

“Don’t be stupid," replies James at once, that being his least worry at the moment. 

“I’m dead Sirius,” the boy answers back, before grinning broadly. 

“We’d agreed you’d stop using that one,” scoffs Remus, stepping forward so Sirius will see him without turning his neck in an uncomfortable angle. “But we’re gonna let that one pass.” 

“Hey, Moony. How was last night?” he asks, having noticed the bandages on his body. 

“You know, the usual. I had the best time of my life," answers the boy, causing some more laughter in the room, after which Sirius moans once again. It’s then when Euphemia stands up, a hand still resting on Sirius’ chest. 

“You seem fine, dear, but you’ll have to take it easy for a couple of weeks,” she says softly. 

“I know. Thank you,” he whispers, addressing directly Euphemia and Fleamont. They all hear the words “Mom” and “Dad” that Sirius doesn’t dare to utter, but know the feeling’s mutual. 

“By the way, how’d you manage to escape?” asks Fleamont, returning to serious questions. 

Sirius has to swallow loudly before he can answer. “I didn’t,” he says. “My brother got me out.” 

“Regulus?” asks stupidly James, too tired and overwhelmed by everything to express a real coherent sentence. 

“Yep, that one,” laughs Sirius. “After my dear parents left me for dead, he got to my room, packed me a bag and got me out. Suggested I shouldn’t come back.” 

“Doesn’t seem like a mere suggestion to me,” scowls Peter under his breath. 

“Indeed,” says Remus. “I’m surprised they didn’t actually follow you to finish the job.” 

“Me too, actually,” agrees Sirius, looking and sounding really astonished. All of a sudden his face drains from all color contorts in an ugly grimace. “Bloody hell.” 

“Where does it hurt?” asks Euphemia at once. 

“Nothing, yet. I’m so sorry,” he says. “I didn’t think when I gave your address to the conductor. They probably have already come up here to threaten you, or something worse, haven’t they,” he demands, staring intently at the three Potter family members. 

“Like I said, Padfoot, don’t ever be sorry for coming here to save your ass,” whispers James. “And as a matter of fact, we haven’t received any visitors.” 

“And furthermore, I’ve engaged a trial at the Wizengamot requesting your full custody,” ads Fleamont with a reassuring smile. 

On the other hand, Sirius looks at him as he usually looks at his idiotic son. 

“You’ve engaged political suicide, that is,” he replies. He might be out due to the pain and the medicines, but still can see stupidity in such a blatant form waving in front of him. He'd never ask Fleamont or Euphemia to do something as reckless as that one for him. They have it bad enough as it is at the moment.

"It's fine," replies Fleamont politely. "It's what we had to do."

"No, you don't," Sirius answers back almost immediately. "I didn’t mean for you to do any of this. It’s--”

“Sirius, dear, we already consider you our son,” interjects Euphemia, sitting carefully on his mattress. “This’d only make it official.” 

“But--”

“Son, it’s OK, really,” stops Fleamont. “We told you this would be your home if you needed to. You knew the door would always be open for you and we’re glad you came here. We helped you and saved your life from those who’re your biological parents; I think it’s the right thing to do.” 

“I thank you all very much for saving my sorry ass. But you three don’t--”

“Padfoot, knock it off,” orders James, tired, sighing in frustration. “Let us take care of that. Your only focus right now is to get better. You’ve been missing Quidditch practice, and I’m not letting lazy or inexperienced players next year.”

His words do the trick; distract Sirius long enough for him to forget their early discussion. 

“I can still beat your ass,” replies at once. 

“And you’ll be able to prove it in a couple of weeks,” says Euphemia, raising her voice above James’ answer. “For now, why don’t we let the patient sleep? You need your rest.” 

Of course, her suggestion doesn’t find any kind of discussion. Bidding Sirius farewell and a good night’s sleep, Remus, Peter and Fleamont slowly leave the room. Euphemia follows them a few seconds later, after exchanging a long look with her son, as well as a non-verbal discussion. The conclusion is that James will be fine on his own with Sirius, or rather, that he actually needs to be alone with his brother after the fright of literally saving his ass. 

When they’re alone again, James grabs a chair and pulls it closer to the mattress, where Sirius’ already shifting slightly to find a more comfortable position to sleep in. But he’s fully conscious when he looks up and down his brother’s figure and talks to him. 

“How are you doing? _Really._ ” 

“Well, I haven’t been beaten to death, there’s that,” scowls James, crossing his legs while caressing Sirius’ arm. In return, the boy rolls his eyes, letting out a long sigh. 

“You’re never letting me forget this, are you?”

“I was serious before. I want to kill them. We should be marching over Grimmauld’s Place.”

At that, Sirius laughs again. “You know we’d never actually manage to hurt them. And in any case, they’re more than dead to me, so what’s the difference?” 

“I don’t think I can live with myself if they go unpunished after everything they’ve done to you, Pads,” whispers James, being completely honest with him. Warning with his voice that if he ever dares to repeat his words he’ll hex him, but he can say so when they’re all alone on the street. 

“I can. They're as dead to me--I've never been a child to them and they've never been, not once, like parents to me. So please, just let me sleep for now. When I wake up we can discuss hexing the Sorting Hat instead of my family.” 

The change of subject hasn’t been that subtle to James, who simply sighs. “Doesn’t feel the same, but it’ll do. I’m curious to see what happens if we dare to pull one of our pranks on the first night of term,” he says, giving up to his brother and to their pranks.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A night patrolling the castle becomes quite eventful for the two Gryffindor Prefect students. Bashing from Lily Evans, Albus Dumbledore and to lesser extent, Remus Lupin.

The beam of moonlight comes through the window, lighting the young girl’s back, who’s sound asleep thanks to one of Madame Pomfrey’s potions, lying on the bed furthest to tonight’s two other patients. Her now calm face and even breathing are the only real explanations as how can James be sitting on a chair by the bed calmly, looking after the kid, instead of wander around the castle in rage, hexing everyone who comes his way--and it’s a good thing too, since Professor McGonagall, Professor Slughorn and Headmaster Dumbledore are all also present in the infirmary, besides the nurse. 

A hand lands on James’s shoulder, so calm, so comforting, so warm, so familiar, that he isn’t even startled, nor shifts his eyes from the girl resting in front of him. Who else could it be?

“Evans,” he greets in a whisper. 

She hushes him and he turns around, finding Evans looking down on him with an indescribable stare and signals for the corner of the infirmary. James nods too: yes, they need to talk and yeah, better to do so away from the girl, to let her sleep. 

He checks Miranda’s well-being one last time before placing the chocolate slab on the nightstand, close by to the girl’s reach. His hands shake in rage when he notices again the ugly cut on the girl’s forehead--he has to take a moment to cool it down in order not to combust into flames in the middle of the infirmary. 

Evans’ waiting for him tapping on the floor, arms crossed, glaring at him. He’s seen that glare and disposition many times before. If looks could kill, he’d drop dead this instance; or actually, he would have back in first year. 

“Alright there, Evans?” he asks in a whisper, leaning exhausted against the wall. “You look upset.” 

“Aren’t you the smartest in the room,” scowls Evans, a sentence that just shocks James’s system, sarcasm being the last thing he was expecting to hear at this moment. 

“What’d I do?”

“Do you even have to ask?” 

“Please, Evans, just say what’s bugging you--I’m too beat for riddles,” he prays. 

His exhaustion just ignites Evans’s fire. She raises a hand to signal the two occupied beds, her voice low, yet menacing and fast, signaling her concern and also, to be truth, her outrage. 

“Madame Pomfrey’s pondering if sending those guys to St. Mungo’s! They’ve called their parents because of the severity of their injuries!” she informs. 

“So?” asks James, shrugging. 

“So?!” shrieks the girl. “You beat the crap out of them!” 

“Is there a point to all this bickering, Evans?” he demands, noticing at this point it could might not be. 

“Don’t be a smart-mouth tonight,” scowls Lily. “You don’t do that to people just because they were out after curfew.” 

James steps forward now, wanting to make his point across. “I didn’t punish them because--” 

But he doesn’t get the chance. “Actually, you shouldn’t have been out of bed either. What’d you think you were doing?!” she demands. 

Only this question could take James aback and slow down the pace of the squabble. He frowns, measuring his words very carefully, checking over his shoulder to make sure no-one, patient or teacher, is within hearing shot. 

“You know the answer to that question since at least third year. That, or I’ve been looking up to you too much.” 

Lily doesn’t understand a word. . . At first. Whatever she was going to say doesn’t leave her mouth as, after some seconds, the frown disappears from her fronthead and she turns to look through the windows, at the big, bright, shiny full moon. She spins again just a little bit startled, but more than ready to go back at it--to James’ dismay. 

“Well, then, you should know Prefects don’t do something like that!” she replies, signaling again for Thorne and Tiffany. 

“What?! Saving and protecting a little girl?!” specifies James, disbelieving this argument isn’t over just yet. 

“Don’t give me that, Potter; you could have protected her with a simple ‘Protego’ just fine--” 

“´Cause that would have shown them not to torture eleven-year-old girls again.” 

“You did a whole lot more than saving her!” 

“I did what I deemed necessary,” he replies, matter-of-factly, without even showing a little bit of remorse, as if truly believing his words and actions. 

“Yeah, and two boys can vouch for that,” she scowls. 

“Hey, wait a second, perfect-in-every-goddamn-awfully-irritating-way Evans,--” 

“How dare you, Potter, this is NOT--” 

“Answer me this: what would have happened if I hadn’t stopped them? What would have happened to Miranda? Don’t try to deny it--she could have died, Evans.” 

“And what if _I_ hadn’t stopped _you_ , Potter?” she says, venom spitting from her words. “What would have been the result then? Not two injured, but two dead bodies lying over there?” 

“Doesn’t make a difference.” 

“Merlin’s sake, James--it makes **all** the difference!” 

“Not in my book!” 

“Well, we’ve proven time and time again that _your book_ might be wrong.” 

“It is not,” he promises coldly. 

“More often than what you’d ever dare to admit,” she adds, with as much hatred as James’s own words. “Please, James, can’t you see?!” she demands in desperation before the boy speaks again. “There are lines that we do not cross! We are honorable, fair, decent--and stay that way even if all hell breaks loose. That’s what makes us different from THEM!” 

“Mr. Potter, Miss Evans,” says Prof. McGonagall in a low and stern voice, making them realize they haven’t spoken as silently as they were hoping, since they’ve ended up shouting at each other. And they notice as well the inadequate short distance between them, so while clearing awkwardly their throats, they step backwards from each other, looking at everywhere but Professor Minnie, who remains calm throughout their nervousness and shifting, “maybe it’s not the appropriate time or place for this argument?” 

“Sorry, Professor,” whispers Evans. 

“It’s quite alright,” says their Head of House reassuringly, “but please do return to your dormitories and get some rest. You’ve done enough for tonight,” she insists over their protests, pushing them gently towards the infirmary entrance, “now I urge you to leave. The Headmaster will see you both in the morning.” 

They see there’s no point in arguing further, as so usually happens when their Head of House is involved, so they leave the infirmary, stepping into the hallway. Without another word Professor McGonagall closes and even locks the doors behind them, leaving James and Lily in the deserted, cold and pitch-dark hallway. The change between the two places is quite brutal and they need some time to adjust to the darkness and different temperature. 

However, it might seem they haven’t left everything behind. 

“Hope you’re happy,” scowls Lily, not trying to keep her voice--or hatred--down now that it doesn’t matter to anybody. 

James rolls his eyes, exasperated and tired, internally wanting nothing but beg to let this discussion go, but still not willing to put his foot down either. 

“You’ll have to be a little bit more specific.” 

“Jeez--you have no idea of what’s happened tonight, do you? Of what you did?” 

“Oh, I know what happened, Lily--trust me,” he scowls, deep, low voice. 

She steps closer, pushing him, with a single finger, backwards against the stone wall. “I’m guessing you don’t regret your actions for a minute.” 

“Your guess isn’t misled.” 

“For the love of God, Potter!!” she shrieks, starting to walk in circles. “Don’t you see you’ll never make it to Head Boy if you keep--?” 

“I couldn’t care less!!” explodes James. “And if _that’s_ your biggest concern--” 

“No, it’s not, Potter, but you should care about--” 

“That title is utterly useless if we don’t do the right things with the power we own!” 

“Prefects do not punish!” 

“Being a Death Eater is sentenced by receiving a one-way ticket to Azkaban, Evans.” 

“The chores to a good Prefect are remaining loyal to the staff and to the students, help them, get their trust, stand for them--” resumes the girl, reciting, at the worst possible moment, the Prefect’s vows. 

“I stood for Miranda, Evans!” 

“There are many ways to standing up for someone, James--torturing instead of protecting is just a naïve and stupid reading to that whole concept!” 

“For Merlin’s balls, pity and self-righteous won’t win this War!!” scowls James, leaning to be eye-level with Evans, as if that could ever make a difference. 

She does stop her walking to look at him straight in the eye, though. 

“There’s no War inside the Castle, nor amongst the students!” 

“PLEASE!” scoffs the young boy. “Who’s being naïve now?! That first-year muggle-born could have died tonight because a pair of stupid and out-of-their-minds idiot teenagers believe what a crazy, God-complex brat--” 

“James, you don’t need to remind me why muggle-borns are being targeted.” 

The coldness of her words, and the pain in her voice, struck James, who takes a very deep breath and steps backwards, as hurt physically as Lily must be right now with her words, completely out of line. Evans has been attacked before, which is the second main reason why tonight’s attack has upset him so much, or definitely the reason why the whole school heard about the incident at the Headmaster’s office the first night of term when he confronted Dumbledore for making Lily Evans, of all the girls in their year, a Prefect, with prospects of her being the Head Girl. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, for the first time tonight, sounding genuine. 

Lily’s hurt confession and James’s words are followed by some quiet heartbeats, the pace of the argument finally slowing down, trying to be reasonable. 

“I know you are, Potter, but not for the right reason.” 

“Don’t make me apologize for--” he begs, signaling the infirmary with a nod of his head. 

“Well, you should, James. Hexing and torturing students--that’s not you. _That’s not the man I_ \--” 

James steps forwards and that simple gesture makes Lily realize where she is, who is she with and what was she about to say. She’s fast to recover from her almost slip, though the unsaid words are already there, their meaning hovering painfully between them. 

“You torturing people is not the man I believe in,” she whispers without looking up at him. “You’ve changed, Potter, but no so much. You still need to grow up, Potter. Goodnight,” she bids farewell before he can think of any kind of intelligent response. 

She spins and starts running down the hall without looking back. And though they’ve yelled at long length up until now, James can’t find the words to stop her, nor is he able to follow after her--and even if he reached her, he can’t think of a single thing to tell her right now. 

Someone clears their throat beside him and this time, James almost jumps from fright. Though he could have guessed it were no-one but his dear Headmaster, who’s not half as embarrassed as he is after the discussion with Evans. 

“Night’s still young, I see?” comments the man. 

“Professor,” sighs James, still not quite recovered yet. “How much of that did you hear?” He really fears the answer--he’s not up, at all, for a lesson this late, much less for an insight to their conversation or their platonic romantic status, whichever it is at this state. He’s already learnt to read between the lines. Sadly, it is never too late for a lesson at Hogwarts. 

“Enough to know that you and Miss Evans need to have a long, nice chat someday,” says the Headmaster, as delicate and vague as always. “And also, to know that she’ll come around eventually.” 

James nods a few times, accepting the truth. But at this moment it’s very difficult for him to take any kind of advice from his Headmaster, even though he might be speaking the truth, even though his words might end up being useful someday. 

“With all due respects, Headmaster--” 

“I tend to believe nothing that follows those particular words, in that order, can be considered respectful in any way.”

“But I must say this. Please,” he insists. 

The Headmaster stares at him for some seconds over his spectacles, before nodding once. “Proceed, then, Mr. Potter. Looks like the stage is all yours and we have all night.” 

“Yeah, well, I’ll go to bed after you tell me what Mr. Tiffany and Mr. Thorne’s punishment’s going to be.” 

“Mr. Potter, this is--” 

“Or maybe we should just give the Minister a call. After all, that pair are Death Eaters and should be in Azkaban, according to the current Law. In fact, there’re a lot of students roaming freely around the castle when they should be taken into custody, or prison!” 

“If you’d let me explain,” begs Dumbledore, raising a hand. But James doesn’t have patience for the Headmaster’s naturally calm-being. 

“What is there to explain, Albus? Why are you planning on punishing me for saving a little girl when the offenders will see no punishment at all? How’s that for fairness?” 

“Here we don’t punish people for who they are--only for what they’ve done.” 

James’s heard that one before too, according to the Prefect’s vows. The amount of times he’s overhead this speech coming from Evans’s and Remus’s lips. 

“Still sounds biased to me, to be honest, sir.” 

“Let me rephrase that, then--you advocate punishing those two students because of their allegiances,” Dumbledore acknowledges, without the slightest shred of doubt. 

“The Ministry would!” James knew before he said the words his argument wouldn’t hold water and he’s proven right in two mere seconds. 

“This school isn’t the Ministry, Mr. Potter. In fact, I think you’re well aware that more than often we don’t follow the Ministry’s rulings.” How could he counterargument that one statement when the Headmaster, or any other member from staff, has never reported their illegal Animagi conditions to the Ministry, hereby being, all of them, accessory to illegal practices. Specially when, given the number of Death Eaters who currently hold official Ministry positions, they could receive a considerable reward for the tip. 

“Does that mean things run differently here? Out of the Law?” 

“Don't you prefer it this way?” says Dumbledore, his voice sounding just a little bit surprised, the briefest of smiles on his lips. 

“When the Ministry’s acting stupidly, which is most of the time, yes, I do, undoubtedly, fire away! But not when they’re right about something!” replies James. 

“How are they right?” demands the Headmaster. 

“We send Death Eaters to Azkaban,” reasons James, trying to order the many thoughts running through his beat brain to form at least coherent sentences. “ _We won’t win this War holding hands and throwing daises at each other!_ ” 

“And that’s where I must inform you that you’re wrong, Mr. Potter. We do not fight this War from inside this Castle--Hogwarts is off boundaries.” 

“ _EXCUSE ME?!_ ” he yells outraged. 

Up until now leaning against the wall, keeping a respectful distance between the Headmaster even considering the engage debate they’d been holding, now James steps forward, leaning into Dumbledore in what even he’d call a menacing way. Because some things need to be straightened out. 

“We’re still students of this school! We haven’t even graduated, we’re not of age yet, and we’ve seen death already, more than many adults in the Wizardry World! We’re supposedly under your protection inside these walls and despite every major, reasonable issue, you’ve asked us to take an active part in this War by joining a group of wizards who openly stands against the darkest wizards of all times!! Yeah, we agreed to join you, but we almost felt compelled to because of what YOU taught us! We’ve faced fellow students on the field!! Don’t you dare tell us we’re safe from the War inside this Castle, or that the War hasn’t penetrated long ago this Castle, Headmaster. Where do you claim that imaginary line’s supposed to be?!” 

“Mr. Potter.” 

He knows for certain only three female people could have stopped his yelling and rage--those being his mother, Lily Evans and his Head of House. On this instance, it’s Professor McGonagall the one who, her head coming out from the door, demands a bit of decorum and respect from him. As Headmaster and Head of House stare disbelieving at him, James takes a deep breath and steps backwards, leaning into the cold wall, begging for it to cool his whole system down, at least trying to relax. But not even Lily or Padfoot on a good day could make him change his mind--and so he tells the Headmaster with a single, piercing glare, who seems to accept it staring at him over his spectacles. 

The old wizard nods once, slowly, solemnly, and inhales too. 

“I will not punish you in any way for your actions tonight, Mr. Potter,” he decides finally, “though I’d advise you to take things slower and calmer.” 

James nods too, standing straight. “Thank you, Headmaster,” he says in cold voice, which could barely be considerate as polite. “Good night, sir. Professor McGonagall,” he bids farewell, walking down the hallway. 

He tries everything for a couple of minutes, but nothing’s helping to clear his head, so probably a little stroll is in order before returning to the Griffindor Tower--all in all, he’s lost enough sleep as it is, twenty minutes less won’t make such a difference. Just in case Dumbledore decides to write to Euphemia about tonight’s events, James should send an owl home too, considering his mother could use a heads-up and an explanation from him. 

The late-night stroll and writing things down haven’t resulted in what he was hoping for. He’s still shaken and mad by the time he gets to the dorm, and he’s carelessly noisy--and rude, since he’s coarsely snapped at the Fat Lady for complaining about waking her this late. He ends up waking up the one person who could have used all the sleep he could have gotten tonight. 

“Prongs?” demands Moony, sleep clear in his voice. “What’s going on?”

“Sorry, mate, go back to sleep,” says James as politely as he can, halfway changing into his pajamas. 

“Did something happen?” asks the boy, turning to face him. 

“You could say that,” sighs James. “But it’s alright, Moony, seriously, don’t--” 

Before he can finish, Moony’s already standing from his bed with very slow, measured movements, trying his best not to use any particularly aching muscles--which must be a pretty hard task, considering the full moon’s next night and he’s been on the bed for most day. And yet, he manages to stand up, leaning into the bed’s canopy. 

“No,” he replies sternly, getting closer a couple feet. “You were covering for me tonight. What happened?” 

Knowing the best way to finish this conversation is to get it over with as soon as possible, James doesn’t even ponder the possibility of lying to his friend. 

“Another attack on a Muggle-born. Miranda.” 

“ _Jesus,_ ” scowls Remus, shaking his head. “Is she--?” 

“I didn’t let them get too far,” interjects James solemnly. 

Finally, with such a cold, hurt answer, Remus sees what’s truly happened on tonight’s watch and what’s got James so upset--which only helps him to get dismayed too, as he drops into his bed again, shaking his head once more. 

“Again, Prongs?” he demands, venom in his voice. 

“Not you too,” begs him, throwing the pajamas away as not to punch Moony instead. “Evans’s already lectured me tonight. And the Headmaster too.” 

“They both have a point--you can’t keep doing this. It’s the third time in the past two months--” 

“I’ll stop when they stop,” sentences James, sitting in front of Remus. And seeing that these attacks will not cease any time soon out of nowhere, his promise is as good as wastepaper. 

“One party has to stop before things go south.” 

“You mean, as in someone drops dead,” translates James. 

“That scenario has crossed my mind, yeah,” confesses Moony, genuine worry tainting his shaky voice. 

“Moony, just because we’re students or underage, doesn’t mean we can’t act accordingly, doing what we think is right,” reasons James. “We cannot let these things go. Turning a blind eye is just--” 

“That’s not how we fix things, Prongs.” 

“For Merlin’s--Moony, what do you want me to do?” he demands, raising his voice a bit too loud without realizing it. “Sit tight and watch how they systematically torture every single defenseless muggle-born on this school, night in, night out?!” 

“James, of course that we can fight it. In fact, we should and we will fight it. But endangering our lives--” 

“What’s the difference between being in the line of danger inside this Castle and outside of it, huh?! Can someone please explain it to me?!” 

“Okay, Prongs, we’ve discussed too many times why we should or shouldn’t take part on this War and I’m aching too much,” interjects Remus, a low, desperate chuckle escaping his mouth as he moves along the topic of conversation. “The main thing that upsets me about you going out and doing this sort of thing is that you do it on my name, the nights people know I’m Prefect. You’re biased and condemn people on my name, Prongs. I’m not OK with it.” 

Even before he was finished, James was already shaking his head, but he allows Remus to present his whole argument before refuting it, with a hand on his heart, apparently. 

“No, Moony--Quite the opposite, really,” he says. “On these nights I’m giving the staff and the students exactly what you give us all. I’m giving them hope by defending them. They trust you--they look up to you, they come to you for help and assurance; I’ve seen them. They need to know someone stands for them, because if they think they’re alone, they’ll lose all hope, and that’s the last thing we can lose; we don’t have the luxury of letting that happen. These past nights I’ve just been your executive arm. Or, you know, wand,” he adds in a chuckle. 

Although it didn’t seem James could change Remus’s mind, by the time he’s finished talking Moony’s stopped shaking his head and looking at him incredulously, but with a surprised, bewildered, taken aback stare; he hadn’t even realized he meant so much for James, or that James aimed for his model. After some seconds, he clears his throat and nods, signaling the end of the conversation. 

“Let’s call it a day,” he decides, avoiding Prongs’ eyes, “you should sleep--and Merlin knows what can happen tomorrow.” 

“Well, for one, I could be facing suspension,” says James. 

Despite the severity of the charges, he chuckles under his breath and so Remus can’t take it too seriously. He climbs onto his bed again and James covers him tight with the sheets and blankets so he doesn’t get cold--the last thing he needs right now. They share the briefest of smiles, though the sincerest of them, before James heads for his bed too. 

“Night, Moony.” 

He can barely hear, much less understand, his friend’s answer, but guesses the meaning was similar to his well-wishes. Within seconds Prongs is asleep too, without the slightest of remorse for what’s happened, nor dreading what tomorrow could hold. As a matter of fact, the only thing that gets stuck on the back of his brain and will most probably reappear in his dreams in one way or another are the unsaid words that Evans almost slipped out. It’s amazing how he didn’t barge into the room, woken everyone up and explained it all in full detail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those Olicity fans, JILY line extracted from Season 03, Episode 19 of Arrow (credit where it's due ^^").


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One shot. Lily Evans POV, at some point during seventh year, thinking about her new family.

Staring over the top of her book, Lily Evans, beaming, thinks that heaven can’t be much different than this. Laying down warmly on the couch in front of the fireplace, her legs tingled with James’, her head resting on James’ shoulder, she just knows the last couple of months have been the most blissful and happy of the term--or the year. 

She’d caught over the years glimpses of the real James Potter, behind the mask of petulant and arrogant teenage boy: his loyalty towards his friends; his fierce at fighting, somewhat recklessly, the known Death Eaters students that lived with them in the castle and plagued the younger students; his kindness while in perfect duty he finds some first or second year student hexed and he firstly takes care of them rather than chasing the authors behind it; his bravery upon accepting being a member of the Order of the Phoenix the same day Dumbledore’d proposed that to them, even when she herself still doubted about it; his audacity at battle, or even confronting Voldemort himself. 

She’d known all that about him, and she’d seen all of these qualities over the years at Hogwarts, but it hasn’t been until they started dating that she could comprehend and absorve it all in its fullness. The perfect gentleman he was around her, though behind her he still pulled an impressive amount of pranks with the rest of the Marauders. His caring when she got sick three weeks ago and he didn’t separate from her, even though they didn’t have the same classes that day, insisting in accompanying her, carrying her school bag, and taking her through passages she’d never known before dating James, shortcuts to each and every class she had, and at night, staying with her and delivering every craving she had, sharing his bed, and therefore, understandably, getting sick himself the next day. Considering their relationship the year before, it’s amazing to most students how they can spend so much time together now, though they are compelled to as Head Boy and Girl, but to do so in such a great mood. But right now, Lily wouldn’t dream of be separated from James--homework, studying, even watching him in Quidditch practices. She’d do almost anything to be close to him. 

James smirks, without glancing away from his parchment, and Lily can only guess the ridiculous amount of time she must have been staring at her boyfriend. But she doesn’t glance away and James, instead, shifts slightly on the couch, so that Lily is almost sitting on top of him. Making it impossible for her to do any kind of homework now, being painfully close to his face and his lips. Having forgotten her book by now, she stretches and places her nose on the corner of his neck, caressing his jaw. He lets out a gasp, enough for her to continue, scratching his subtle stubble with the tip on her nose, painfully slow, inch by inch, reaching his mouth, arousing him by the second. 

Suddenly, making her aware of their surrounding, three male voices greet them from behind the couch and, without waiting for a response, the other Marauders find themselves places around the couple --Sirius on the space left on the couch, Remus on the armchair on their right, Peter on the carpeted floor. Neither of them find strange the position James and Lily were, or comment their struggle at straightening and sitting in a more formal position, as they get some books of their own and start their homework diligently, talking to each other quietly, now even including James in the conversation. 

Lily too gets her book and, after imposing a respectful space between her and James, slapping him slightly on the arm, starts reading, cheeks red. But she finds it impossible to focus on what she’s reading--nevermind it’s, above everything, Transfiguration. But it’s not easy while being so close to James and, having the rest of the Marauders around her. 

She’s befriended with all of them separately: she used to do homework and study every week with Remus, Sirius was the one who talked her into giving James a chance and accept his proposal of a date, and she finds herself often enough in the kitchens with Peter. And in this last year she’s spent with them more time than ever, both at class and outside. But yet she feels nervous with them as a group. They are so close to each other, have been since day one at Hogwarts, and she knows there is something else going on among them, and she doesn’t want to intrude. Nor to oblige them to accept her just because she’s dating one of them. 

Nervous she closes her book and stands up from the couch. This action attracts the attention of the four Marauders, who look up from their parchments and books to look at her. James even stands up, shooting a hand at her. 

“Lils?" he asks, true concern in his voice. 

She tries to only focus on her boyfriend, while feeling the stares of the other three boys. But James’ voice is so full of concern, and his eyes so deep, that she has a hard time finding words. 

“I need--I left a book--I have to go to my dorm,” she says finally, signaling the Gryffindor’s girl’s staircase dormitory rather than the Head Boy and Girl dormitory, where James could easily follow her to. 

“I can go fetch it for you. What book is it?” 

“It’s--”

She can’t think of any subject quickly enough and, before she processes it, James has jumped over the couch--few months back she’d still considered this as a way to show off his agility and body--and step in front of the girl’s dormitory, facing Lily, grabbing her wrists.

“I thought you only had your Transfiguration essay left,” he insists stubbornly. He’s manifestly shown Lily’s lie, given the fact that she has in her hand the Transfiguration book, but he still doesn’t seem to realize the true problem. The frown of his eyebrows increases as time passes, while Lily, stumbling for words, glances over at the rest of the Marauders, who look back at her blankly, though starting to comprehend the situation. 

“What’s the problem?” asks James. 

“Nothing!” she answers upon seeing the hurt look on her boyfriend’s eyes. But who’s she lying to, it’s obvious something’s concerning her. 

Lucky for them all, a person comes to the rescue. Well, not any person, but the person who’s helped both of them countless of times throughout their years at Hogwarts in terms of their academic and couple miseries. 

“Oi, Lily! Get your ass back here, I need help with this Potions essay!” shouts Sirius from the sofa. 

Her cheeks reddening, Lily smiles and glances at her feet. In front of her, James, finally understanding the situation, sighs in relief and lets out a sneer, shortening it as he receives Lily’s glare. He releases her wrists, holding one of her hands as he guides her back to the sofa with a nervous smile. 

“I thought it was pretty clear by now. You’re a part of this group just as much as any of us, Lils," he says, not bothering to keep his voice low. He says it with such a compassion and sincerity in his tone and in his eyes that it makes it impossible for Lily not to trust his words. 

“Have been for a while now, actually,” agrees Sirius, patting the spot on the sofa she was occupying before. 

“You should know better,” insists Remus with a calm, reassuring and almost stern voice, that of a bigger brother. He’s stood up from the chair, respectfully waiting for Lily to return and sit down again. “We don’t bite.” 

Once again, that statement causes snickering from the four Marauders, as if it were some kind of an internal joke, and gets registered in the back of Lily’s mind as she settles into the sofa between James on her right side and Sirius on the other. Both of them get closer to the girl, caressing each of her arms, in a lovingly and reassuring way. 

“Of course not,” encourages little Peter from beside the couch. 

“Seriously, though--” He trails off as he sees Lily raising an eyebrow and groans from the other Marauders. “We mean it,” he amends, “you’ll always be a part of our small family if you want to.” 

“If it’s OK for you, we’re more than glad for you to be with us,” insists Peter. 

Lily looks at all of them for a few seconds, James the last one, who is looking right back at her beamingly and hopefully. Her answer is obvious even to her--she doesn’t even need time to think it through to know she’s speaking from her heart. 

“I’d like nothing more.” To be a part of this small, complexed, loving, twisted, amusing, caring, tortured, complicated family. 

“Don’t forget misbehaved,” adds Sirius with a smirk, and that's when Lily realizes she’s enlisted out loud the adjectives she usually uses to describe the Marauders. 

“Never could,” she answers, grinning back. 

Suddenly, as if nothing has happened, everyone resumes his homework peacefully and quietly. James leans even closer to Lily, enjoying the stablished and non-controversial relationship between the Marauders and his--finally--girlfriend. The rest of the boys, they simply don’t feel as much has changed--just a new addition to their group, one that they’ve been waiting for seven long years. To Lily, it surely seems like she’s at last understanding what it means to have real sibling at one side. 

Distracting her from her thoughts, Sirius, big grin on his lips, throws his Potion book at her lap and gets comfortable beside her. She doesn’t complain as she takes a look at the page open. 

“So, Evans, this paragraph here--”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The events of a Marauders' night out in the Muggle World escalate when Prongs and Padfoot wake up at someplace foreign having no memory of what happened. The usual drama from these two continues.

A sudden, sharp pain on his left cheek drags him out of unconsciousness abruptly. James’s brain functions the enough time to recognize Padfoot’s the man before him--and probably the one who caused the soreness--before drifting off to sleep again, leaving him without any kind of answers, or ability to get them nor process his surroundings. 

“What? _WHAT?!_ ” is his first intelligent word. 

Padfoot sighs, relieved. “Thank Merlin I didn’t have to kiss you,” he scowls next, as much appalled as he is alleviated. 

Upon hearing this, James tries to move away from him, a bit uneasy just yet. 

“However romantic that proposition was, I’m glad you didn’t. Why did you think I’m interested in waking up tasting your lips?” 

“You were almost dead, Prongs,” scowls Sirius, sighing deeply, sitting down on a bench close to James. 

Frightened, the boy reaches a shaky hand to his chest, comforted to feel his heart beating. 

“CPR?” he asks in a whimper. 

“No,” says Sirius, before cocking his head in refusal, “but, yeah--muggle literature. You know, all those Disney princesses?, a true love’s kiss?” 

“My, Padfoot, aren’t we opening up today,” laughs James, trying to raise an arm to punch his brother on the arm, but not finding the strength or the aim to do so. 

“Oh, do shut up,” scowls Sirius. 

“You’re right, however,” says James. “You have Aurora from Sleeping Beauty, who fell asleep after picking her finger on a conjured spinning wheel and was awaken by her true love’s kiss, Prince Philip.” 

“Prongs,” begs Sirius in a scowl. 

“Then, of course, there’s Snow White, who entered her slumber after eating a poison apple from the Evil Witch, her wicked stepmother, and woke up only to--” 

“Prongs, I swear, if you don’t shut up this instance, someone _is_ going to drop dead.” 

Knowing when his sibling’s bluffing and that Sirius is perfectly capable of killing him very slowly and very painfully, James finally shuts his mouth. Padfoot blesses this silence with a deep sigh, closing his eyes, resting his head on the wall. Seemingly exhausted. Considering the kind of conversation they’re used to holding twenty-four seven, James guesses his tiredness cannot come from the five-minute silly chit-chat they’ve had since he woke up. 

Seeing as his brother’s no interested anymore in him or where they are, James looks around, just out of curiosity--and only then he finds out they’re behind bars. 

He scowls and slowly stands up, letting the surroundings sink in, eyebrows frowned. They’re, thank Merlin, in the same room, separate beds, and they can see the way out, a corridor on the left side of the external room, but they’re still trapped, too far away from the bars. 

“Huh. That can’t be a good thing,” he whispers. 

His second smartest remark on a row gets an incredulous scoff from Sirius, who, losing it just a bit, opens his eyes to pierce James right through. 

“Yeah, no shit,” he scowls. “You still haven’t noticed we’re in handcuffs?”

James looks down to see his hand tied to a bar by a set of cuffs--finally finding a good explanation to why wasn’t he able to stand up and move freely to inspect the room they’re in. He’d noticed he couldn’t move away from the bed, but hadn’t imagined this. 

“Well, I can imagine worse things,” he confesses. 

Sirius’s chains clank loudly as he tries to stand up and dash towards his brother with obviously no good intentions. It’s the one good thing from being chained up--he cannot physically hurt James, who’s recoiled to his bed, one hand raised, trying to stop the blow. 

“For Merlin’s balls, Prongs, don’t,” he begs after realizing he can’t get closer enough to his brother. 

“What?!” demands him. 

“I forbid you to fantasize about Lily Evans as long as we’re trapped in here,” he orders, pointing a finger at him menacingly.

 “Oh, come on, you’ve had your time, now let me have it,” begs James as he lays on the bench. 

“My time?!” shrieks Padfoot. 

“Having sexual fantasies about one Prewitt girl.” 

“Merlin,” scowls Sirius, sitting down again because out of getting exasperated for not being able to hit James or trying to cool it, the second option’s the only feasible right now. “Think you hit your head pretty bad, Prongs.” 

“Please. I dare you to tell me that’s not real.” 

“IT IS NOT, PRONGS!!” he yells. 

James hushes him and so Sirius remembers where they are and that he’s raised his voice only a bit too much; or that they’re held someplace, presumably dangerous, against their will. His yell luckily doesn’t attract anybody. Though that comes as a surprise--aren’t there any guards? What kind of cell is this? 

“For the love of Merlin,” scowls him, sinking into his bed. 

“Aren’t you happy and shining today. Remind me not to--” Try as he may, his brain just doesn’t offer him any kind of information, or valuable cognitive skills, for that matter, “to not do again whatever we did that put us in here in the first place.” 

Once more, Sirius’s only response is to stare blankly at him, wishing he could kill his own brother with his bare hands. 

“Aren’t you the slightest bit frightened or interested?” he demands, slowly, low voice, showing his absolute horror and concern. 

“I’m guessing we’ll figure it all out eventually,” says James, sitting down again nonchalantly. 

“Unbelievable,” scowls Sirius, raising his arms in the air. “I’m stuck Merlin knows where with you, of all people--” 

“You make it sound as if I weren’t good enough company,” whimpers James. 

“Well, for one, Moony’s the strongest and probably smartest of us--he could help us.”

“Perhaps,” he grants. 

“Without mentioning his above average human corporal temperature. Don’t tell me that wouldn’t be handy right now--I’m freezing my butt here. Don’t you dare,” he forbids as soon as he realizes his mistake, before James tries to make a pun out of this situation. 

“Come on, you’ve served me it on a silver platter,” begs James. 

“Don’t. Do not dare say it.” 

And even though the situation couldn’t possibly be considered any more strange or out of place, James cracks a smile and that’s the undoing for the both of them, who burst out laughing--noticing now, of all times, an uneasy feeling on their stomachs. 

Despite the jokes, couple minutes in James looks dismayed and hurt, though he’s tried to hide it through his natural charm and stupidity. Padfoot knows it’s not because of the whole being held against their will and just sighs, resting his head against the wall--not knowing how, in this situation, they’re still brothers above anything else. 

“Mate, don’t worry. I still love you--I’m glad we’re together.” 

“Thanks, brother. I am, too,” confesses James. 

They both raise their free arms to each other, but even so they’re still feet apart and can’t reach their fingertips. Still, a physical, direct contact isn’t all that matters when everything’s said and done between the two--and at some point lower their arms again. They sigh, not breaking eye contact, strangely content despite the place and occasion. However impossibly, they start chuckling again. 

“Well, our capturers, whoever they were, aren’t that smarter than us,” says James then. 

“ _How do you figure, Sherlock?_ ” demands Sirius, trying to keep his voice even and not spill the venom or sass he wishes to deliver, though managing so only by not looking at Prongs. 

Despite noticing all those subtle venomous remarks from his brother, James’s smile does not quiver for a second. 

“Elementary, dear Watson. Check your inner pocket.” 

Sirius doesn’t oblige for some long seconds. He at least raises his head and looks at James, who remains confident and content, smiling, as he reaches for his own jacket’s inner pocket. Knowing it’s just a waste of time, Sirius finally complies after maybe one full minute. 

He gasps when he notices, right where it should be, his wand--where he hadn’t checked once since he woke up. James’s taken out his too, waving it around triumphantly, the biggest grin of all times on his lips. 

“Admit it, you are glad that I’m here,” he dares. 

 But Sirius doesn’t have time for a ‘you were right’ sibling moment right now--he’s still in awe seeing his wand, his real wand, his thirteen-inches long, of wood and dragon heartstring core wand, on his hand. 

“What in the world?!” 

“I don’t think we were captured by Death Eaters,” says James. 

Sirius scoffs as a way of confirming those words. Following Prongs’s suit, he unlocks the handcuffs and stands from the bench, stretching arms and legs. The upbringing joyful feeling disappears at some extent when he feels vertigo and, rather than wander around the cell, needs to sit down. On the bench next to him, James doesn’t seem to be doing any better. 

“When--?” 

“I noticed I still had it with me as soon as I woke up,” explains James, eyes closed, a hand to his head, as if to put a stop to the dizziness. “Seriously, Sirius, you need to be more aware of your surroundings, specially your wand. You need to--” 

“Don’t finish that sentence; I still want to kill you after your foolish act,” scowls Sirius. It is not the time for a lecture, much less one they’ve heard over and over and over again from all their instructors at Hogwarts, at the Order and even at home, from their parents. 

“Shutting up,” accepts James. “Though if it compensates in any way, I do feel dizzy,” he confesses, standing up with uneasy step, his eyes still no quite focused yet. 

“Same here,” says Sirius. “D’you remember what were we doing before ending up locked here? Any idea of what happened to us?” 

James stares at some spot in the distance for a few seconds before opening his eyes bat. 

“Actually. . . As a matter of fact, I do remember every tiny detail. Just forgot to share my insight with you,” he ends with a scowl, breaking Sirius’s faint hopes. “Jeez--sorry, wrong choice of words.” 

“Our mother made a mistake by having you sixteen years ago,” groans Padfoot. 

Giving up, James sits down again on the bench, just looking for a moment of piece and quiet, to be able to disconnect his up until now useless brain again. Sirius, on the other hand, stays on his two feet, without moving. Maybe a full minute later, expecting some smart comeback or something proactive from Sirius by now, James looks up at him again, to see him doing something really out of the ordinary--he’s thinking. 

Amazed, Prongs stands up again, slowly, in order not to interrupt this miracle of life. 

“That didn’t come out as wrong as you think,” he says all of a sudden, pointing a finger at James’s chest. 

“Mate, time for jokes is well over,” scowls him, stepping back to the bench. 

“But apparently, your hour of tomfoolery isn’t, just yet,” Sirius replies back, sending him a significant, tired look--one James’s received many times from too many friends and family members. 

“What I meant is that we can try to get some answers from inside each other.” 

Sirius’s sentence does sound a little off--main reason, he’d think, why it takes James too much time to understand what he means. 

“Occlumency?” asks James then, weary, maybe not being the best idea. 

Padfoot’s a bit undecided too, despite of being the mind of the plan. “That, or we get out of here and demand questions after.” 

Neither of them likes option number two: they’ve been told more than once to never enter an unknown place, where most certainly there are menacing people who’re retaining them against their will, looking for a fight. Dumbledore, Alastor, Minnie, their parents,... The list of people who’d never forgive them for doing so is endless. Better choosing option number one. 

Though on the other hand, they don’t trust their skills right now either, after whatever’s happened to them--but no-one mentions their fears out loud. 

“Might not be a bad idea,” says James instead, nodding his head. “Okay, go ahead, hit me,” he approves, rubbing his hands and arms and bouncing a little bit before sitting down again, massaging his forehead as if to release some stress out. 

Now that it’s Sirius who’s supposed to take action, on his brother, he’s more reticent than before. 

“Why you?” he demands. Wouldn’t want to hurt him by a lack of control of his powers. 

“Because you usually keep secrets to save your life,” reasons James, proving he’s not just a pretty face, though that face is looking rather pale at this second, “penetrating my mind to get answers might be easier than yours.” 

Not at all convinced, Sirius slowly steps forward till he’s standing in front of James. The first one raises his wand; the second closes his eyes and tries to keep an even breath. Allowing someone, even if it’s his own brother, to access his mind violates each and every fiber of common sense hammered into his body and mind. And yet he’s willing to try it--they must. They need answers. 

Luckily for them both, they never get to use Occlumency. 

“ _THERE THEY ARE_ !!” shrieks a woman. 

The handcuffs reappear on their wrists out of nowhere, dragging them rudely to the benches with a sharp pull which most definitely left behind severe burns on their wrists, but that’s not their biggest problem right now: Euphemia and Fleamont Potter, along with an infuriated Evans, are coming their way following two Muggle police officers. 

Sirius and James share a brief look of terror and incomprehension as the five visitors reach their cell. 

“Mom, Dad,” greets James in a barely audible whimper. 

Sirius tries to stand without succeeding; and words fail him too. Which, turns out, it’s not the case of their parents. 

“I’ll be damned,” scowls their father, piercing them both with a single look. Under his glare, James sits down again and drops his head--Sirius’s followed his suit, he can see it by the corner of his eye. “I wouldn’t believe in a million years you’d be reckless enough to end up in jail.” 

“That’s alright, Mr. Potter, we’re not pressing charges,” one police officer tries to calm down. 

“They’ll wish you would have,” promises sternly the man. “Honestly, I don’t know why on Earth should I bother to bail you out.” 

James’s about to make one of his usual stupid remarks but bites his tongue in time. Instead, choses a passive plea. 

“Dad, please. You know we meant no harm.” 

“It’s hard to believe you, son.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” demands James. 

“Maybe a night in jail is in order for you to--” 

“Dear, please,” stops Euphemia, placing a hand on her husband’s shoulder. “Maybe this is not the time for a scolding. Officers, we’ve paid their bail and signed everything you asked us to. Now, if it’s not too much trouble, we’d like to take our kids home.” 

Euphemia’s tone has remained polite and kind, but through her words she’s shown an undeniable authority behind a peaceful and quiet mask. There’s no way the police officers would refuse to any of her demands. 

“Certainly, ma’am,” accepts on of them. 

He grabs a set of keys and unlocks the cell; his partner gets in and releases first James’s handcuffs, then Sirius, not without missing the opportunity to look down on them both in turn before giving them green light to leave. 

Euphemia hugs her two children as soon as they get out of the cell and come into the police station’s well-lit corridor; but Fleamont doesn’t say a word. His piercing, disappointed and disapproving look hurts more than the police officer’s and it’s worse when he turns around for the entrance without addressing them a single greeting. Lily follows his suit in a very similar way--a combination more terrifying than what they’ve encountered so far in the War. 

Crestfallen, heads dropped, Sirius and James head towards the exit too; behind them, Euphemia politely apologizes to the officers the troubles her kids have caused and wishes them a happy and quiet end of their shift. At the entrance door, the three of them wave goodbye warmly, one step past mere politeness, as James, Sirius, Fleamont and Lily wait some feet apart, in complete silence. 

Outside, the coldness strikes Sirius and James from two fronts: they’re not wearing any coats despite the light snowstorm--Merlin knows what happened to have lost them in the midst of December--and the silent treatment they receive from their Dad, Lily and also their Mom lingers on. They understood it’s better to keep quiet instead of apologizing for the actions that brought them to be arrested--adding to that the horrible fact that they don’t remember a thing. 

Three blocks down the street, a completely silent and cold stroll, they meet with two more people who join the small family group. Judging by the small fire they’ve been using to keep warm, in the middle of a Muggle street, they’ve been waiting out here for quite some time; Remus would never do something this reckless without a very good reason to. 

“Moony? Wormtail?” James asks, surprised. “Are you two alright?” He can’t explain their presences here and, honestly, the amnesia is starting to freak him out. 

“Apart from cold?” replies Remus, bouncing from one feet to the other. “Stellar.” 

“Come on, come here,” orders Fleamont, getting them closer to the small flame, which instantly warms everyone who gets closer and makes James feel much better. But it doesn’t seem to be Sirius’s case also. 

“You alright?” demands Peter in turn. 

James shrugs it off, but Sirius is still not answering in any way, verbal or otherwise, and now it’s starting to be worrisome. As Prongs turns to look at his brother, who doesn’t react in any way and keeps staring blankly, silently, before him, as if he’d been hit by a Cruciatus or something, everyone gets anxious too. 

“Pads? Mate? You there?” demands James, waving his hand in front of his eyes. 

Euphemia steps into the boy’s visual field. “Can you hear us?” she asks, distraught. 

“Pads? Answer us, please,” begs Lily. 

“Move a finger, wink, whistle, do anything!!” yells James, who’s starting to consider to knock him out with a proper hook to his cheek. 

“Come on, lad, don’t frighten us,” begs Fleamont. 

He pats, a bit rudely, Sirius’s shoulder--the strength of the blow throws off Sirius’s balance, who’d fallen to the ground had it not been for James, who grabs him in his arms. Despite the roughness of it all, it seems that’s what’s got Sirius out of his daze. His eyes are more focused, he holds onto James’s shoulders with strength on his arms, places both feet on the ground and stands on his own, looking around as if sinking in now his surroundings. 

“What the--?” 

A deep, enormous sigh of relief escape every member of this family’s lips. 

“What’s going on?” he demands, a bit more pressing, after the greeting he’s received by one and by all.

 Their mother places a hand on Sirius’s shoulder, as if to make sure he’s still there. 

“That’s what we’d like to know,” she confesses. 

“Please, don’t tell us this is because the stunt we pulled back there,” begs Fleamont, signaling the police station with a nod of his head. “You know we had to, otherwise the police officers wouldn’t have let you out that easily. And we couldn’t have let you spend a whole night in a hell-hole Muggle prison; Merlin knows what could have happened to you.” 

“No, Dad, I understand,” nods Sirius. 

He reaches a hand as if to grab Fleamont’s but thinks twice about it. Though the refusal hurts the man at some extent, for him and Euphemia it’s enough to know Sirius’s still willing to interact affectionately with and towards them; it’s more than what they got when they took him in in the first place. 

“You alright, then?” Peter tries to make sure. 

“Yeah, of course we’re fine,” says James, because it’s better to lie. 

“The experience didn’t teach you anything, then,” scowls Lily, rolling her eyes. 

“Hey, we’ve apologized already,” snaps James, turning to face her. 

“Actually, you haven’t,” interjects Fleamont--not sounding as angry or frenzied as before. 

Reflecting for two long seconds, James realizes his father’s accusation is true and deflates a bit. “Sorry, thought I had. It’s an old habit with her, you know,” he says, shrugging. “But we are sorry, Mom, Dad. We never imagined--” 

“That you’d be arrested for public indecency after a night out, forcing Peter and Remus to flee before the police got them too, and since neither of you has any kind of Muggle ID, Lily had to appear at the Potter’s Manor so we could fake some documentation and bail you out before anything worse happened to you two while being under custody?” 

“First off, I--” 

James, as usual, tries to justify everything their father’s attacking them with, but words fail him this time too. What their Dad’s just said seems like an unforgettable story to tell their kids--if any of it rang a single bell. 

“What? Wait--say that again,” he scowls in the end, too beat to pull out his poker face. His brain’s been dead for hours, apparently. 

He realizes only too late he’s slipped up even when he intended not to. There’s a long beat as he registers his mistake and everyone else slowly understands the true meaning of his words, reaching their conclusions with scowls, groans and disbelieving grunts of all sorts. This time, he doesn’t even try to deny or refute everyone’s thoughts--he cannot think of a single dimension where that would be ever possible. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” scowls Lily. Crossing her arms, she has to physically step away from James, couple yards away, on the other side of the row, standing on the snow, ice crunching below her feet. 

“Merlin, you don’t remember anything?” demands Fleamont before James asks them a second alone with Lily to talk over things--they need to hear that conversation too. 

“I’m too ashamed to answer that question,” confesses his son. 

“Which answers the question in itself,” concludes an exasperated Remus. 

“Goddammit, James, Sirius,” scowls Fleamont, bouncing too. 

“We’re sorry, OK?!” yells Padfoot, too tired to still act composed and politely, raising his arms in the air. “But if you explained what happened, we might be able to reconcile what we did!” 

No-one seems up to tell this particular story; their parents are just too shocked, Lily’s pretending she doesn’t know any of them though she sends in the disapproving glare now and then, Peter’s just too afraid. Remus is the only person who’s calm enough to take a deep breath in and at least, try. 

“We had dinner with your parents, at your place,” he starts. “Do you remember that?” 

“I--Think so,” lies James, just so it doesn’t get any more awkward than it already is--but failing, as everyone sees through his lie.

 “Anyhow,” resumes Remus before the yells, scolding or scowls happen, “the five of us went out afterwards to drink a couple beers. Only, you two drank a whole lot more than a couple beers. We lost sight of you for a second and you were gone. Next thing we knew--the police was out of the bar, arresting you for public indecency. Since Wormtail and I don’t own Muggle ID, we had to leave you two.” 

James and Sirius nod a couple of times, dismissing the apologetic tone. They’ve followed the story, but there are still some parts missing somewhere. Now of all times does Lily come back to the family reunion; to fill in the gaps. 

“According to the statement of the witnesses who called the police, you were at the park nearby the pub holding branches and pointing them at pedestrians while saying something that sounded similar to ‘specter patronage’ or something like that. By the time the police came, you two were pawning on your four around the park, jumping around and--neighing, would be the word,” she explains sullenly, still too shaken by it all. “And I think you ate grass,” she adds, signaling, as it couldn’t have been any other way, at James. 

“That’d explain why my stomach’s queasy,” whispers James, sending a hand to his belly. 

“What you ate, or what you drank,” confirms Euphemia. 

Prongs and Padfoot stand in silence for some long seconds, letting the whole story sink in their brains. Afterwards, they can’t hold it--after cracking a smile they just burst out laughing, joined almost immediately by Moony and Wormtail. They hold onto each other in order not to fall into the ground but the roars of laughter keep on raising; Lily’s actually afraid they might be heard from the police station and get arrested again. 

At some point, Fleamont and Euphemia join in too, a bit more decent than their four kids. But even herself, beyond her exasperation and the frantic hour she’s just lived, has to acknowledge the hilarity of the whole thing. James and Sirius being drunk enough to try to cast the Patronus charm at random pedestrians; or to think they’d successfully transformed into their Animagi forms and start acting like their animal counterparts at the park, retorting to even eating grass. It is a story to remember--too bad the two of them won’t. 

“We shouldn’t be laughing,” says Euphemia between breaths, wiping off tears from her eyes. 

“No, we probably shouldn’t,” agrees Fleamont. “But it’s just--too--much,” he can’t even finish te sentence before bursting into laughter once more, followed by six more people. 

“How in the world did you think you managed to transform?” demands Peter in a high-pitched voice. “Considering how much you drank? You couldn’t have got a taxi in your state.” 

“That’s probably why we got arrested,” confirms James. 

A statement which, despite being known by everybody, makes them roar in laughter again. It’s just probably the time and place--anything will set them off now. And considering who they’re talking to, it can take them an awful amount of time to stop. 

Few minutes in--and a couple pedestrians, muggle or otherwise, passing by thinking they’re mad or, worse, drunk--they start to slowly put it together again. Though still smiling, they clear their throats, just a tiny bit ashamed, as they stand straight holding onto each other, wiping off tears from their eyes. 

But on his case, Sirius’s smile disappears only too fast, dropping his gaze to avoid his parents stare. James hugs him by the shoulders, trying to make him forget their parents' prank, 'cause after all, it was nothing but--and he should know. 

“Sirius, don’t look so down, please,” begs Fleamont. 

They wouldn’t forgive themselves if their son, because of one more stupid prank, was not to speak to them again, or shielded away from them, as it so happened when he used to come by throughout summer holidays, or the first few weeks he stayed with them after running away from home. 

“We’re not _that_ mad, really,” promises Euphemia. 

“I know. Thank you, Mom, Dad,” whispers Sirius. 

“We were just scared,” she whispers, hugging Padfoot despite the boy’s reluctancy. 

Sighing deeply, in a big leap of strength, Sirius leans his head on his mother’s shoulder, caressing her back a bit awkwardly--two gestures he never did with his biological mother. Or father, or anyone else in his family apart from Regulus. 

“You don’t have to be,” he whimpers. 

“We’re your parents--we’ll always worry about you,” says Fleamont, caressing his son’s hair, which, contrary to James’s, isn’t a mess even after having too many drinks and spending a whole hour asleep in a police station. “If we didn’t, we wouldn’t have saved your asses.”

 “Thanks,” whispers Sirius. 

Him and Euphemia finally break the embrace--only to be now hugged broadly by his father, without so much of a fuss or shame. Behind him, James also joins by apologizing once more and thanking his parents’s actions again. 

“It’s OK,” promises Euphemia, knowing it really shouldn’t be, but they’re an older couple of too forgiving parents and just can’t stay mad at their children. At least things didn’t turn out to be dangerous or anything, as in, no Death Eater was around to take advantage of the situation. 

“Just be more careful from now on. We feared the worse when Lily showed up in our doorstep all alone after leaving with you four.” 

The fact that they were relieved for their children to be held in a police station shows the kind of worry and dangers they’re facing every day in the streets; they could have been captured by Death Eaters. That’s what they’d feared first--that their children had been slaughtered without means of defending themselves. 

As everyone turns to look at the mentioned girl, she looks down on her feet--not exactly against Euphemia’s words, though certainly she’d have phrased it some other way. Anyhow, now James can understand Evans’s latest bashing; few years back it came as a surprise that when she got angry at Hogwarts and started blaming him, or Sirius, or anyone of the Marauders, she usually had a reason behind her rage. 

“Glad it was all sorted out,” she whispers, glancing up only at James. 

And though he’d like it, he and Lily don’t have more time to discuss it all on their own, nor can engage any physical gesture, not even a reassuring, caring hug--much less a brief kiss on the cheek to beg forgiveness once more. 

“We’re sorry,” insist James and Sirius, standing before their parents like a couple of frightened, slightly embarrassed, misbehaved children. Which they are, after all. 

“We promise we won’t do anything of this sort again,” adds Sirius. 

Everyone except the two of them start chuckling at once--and after some seconds, they join in too. No wonder why no-one took those words seriously. 

“We know you two too well to know that’s a white lie,” reasons Euphemia. “And that’s alright, don’t try to refute it,” she begs, patting Sirius’ shoulder. 

“Just--next time, try not to get arrested. The shame,” he exclaims dramatically, sending a hand up to his heart, causing another roar of laughter.

 “All due respects, Mrs. Potter, I thought you’d be used to being embarrassed by your kids’ actions,” says Remus. 

“Can’t say we aren’t, but this crossed a line of sorts,” confesses Fleamont. 

“Though all is well now,” insists Euphemia, hugging Sirius and James each with one arm. “Come on, let’s all go home.” 

Accepting the suggestion, sharing a genuine feeling about the word and the place of ‘home’, everyone steps forward to close the circle around the patriarch Potter family members. James and Lily hug too and share a long look, though don’t have a chance to exchange a single word as Euphemia concentrates to Apparate them all outside the Potter’s Manor. 

Stiffy greets them home warmly, also expressing her relief at seeing the two young Master Potters alive and well, before taking their coats and giving them each a cup of tea. Fleamont and Euphemia might have ordered her to have a kettle ready by the time they got home--but, knowing that’s their immediate solution to the vast majority of problems they face, most of which usually involve their children, Stiffy maybe needn’t the order altogether.  
 They drink their tea at the living room, not bothering to sit down--they just know they couldn’t stand up again--standing in almost the same perfect circle they got here in, letting the liquid warm their insides, until all the anxiety, nervousness and shock from last night starts to finally wear off for real. Plus, the tea's set James's stomach calm, at least for the night being. 

“Okay, time to go to sleep,” decides Euphemia finally, when the last of them, Lily, drinks their last sip of tea and Stiffy takes them all. “Remus, Peter, Lily, please do stay here tonight, it’s way too late to go home. If you want to, Fleamont and I will talk to your parents in the morning.” 

“Come on, there’s plenty of space,” says Fleamont as the three guests, not that they’re considered that anymore, try to argue. “And you can’t tell me and really hope that I’ll believe you aren’t tired. Upstairs, now--go on.” 

They follow the couple’s gentle orders and, obediently, head for the spare bedrooms on the second floor. Stiffy, whether she was instructed to or not, has already prepared three of the guest rooms, with pajamas, couple of thick blankets and a heater in each bedroom. 

Remus and Peter decide to share one of the bedrooms, leaving, out of courtesy, a whole dormitory for Lily on her own. 

“Goodnight,” Sirius bids farewell from the entrance of the dorm he’s shared with James since the first night ever he spent on this Manor. 

“And you two, sleep it off,” Euphemia adds warningly, addressing her kids, though not as sternly as they’d feared she’d be. “I’ll let you sleep in for once.” 

“Thanks, Mom,” the two of them recite at the same time--really appreciating the kindness. 

All of them, the five children, are kissed goodnight by Fleamont with more well-night wishes before everyone closes the doors to their dormitories, rooms that from now on, though they still don’t know about it, will be considered their own and be reserved to each of them every time they want to spend the night in. 

James waits, one ear against the wall, to hear all doors close before jumping excitedly to Sirius’s side, who’s changing slowly, tired, into his pajamas, ready to go to sleep now. 

“What are you doing?” he demands, almost surprised. 

“Going to sleep, maybe? Have you checked the hour by any chance?” asks Sirius, turning with a condescending look on his face, no other word for it. “And if you’re smart, Prongs, you’ll do so too.” 

“No way,” says the man, jumping into Sirius’s bed and definitely getting into his personal space at a very inadequate moment. “Pads, d’you reckon--?”

 His brother just scowls as he pushes him off his bed rudely. James’d have fallen to the floor wasn’t he so athletic and skilled, even at this hour, thanks to his trainings at Quidditch, both at Hogwarts and home. But Sirius doesn’t give him a second to talk. 

“Prongs, you’ve ended up in jail tonight. If you dare try visiting Lily in her bedroom, I promise you, we’ll have to visit you at the graveyard next. Go to sleep.” 

“But--” he stutters. Hadn’t realized his intentions were so obvious to his brother. By Merlin, he hopes none of his parents have seen through his façade--he will not live to see another day. Though on the other side, an idiot could have noticed it. It’s the first time they’ll be spending a night under the same roof, excluding Hogwarts, which isn’t the same. 

“I SAID NO, PRONGS,” insists Sirius, authoritatively. “Be the man our parents think you are and let the girl rest. You’ve annoyed her enough for one night. Are you going to bed or not?” he demands, raising his head from the pillow, since he wasn’t hearing James moving. 

Under his brother’s stern stare, James has no other option but to, crestfallen, change into his pajamas very slowly, reluctantly, and get into bed at the other side of the room. 

“Stupid older brother safely in bed without intentions of leaving,” he informs. 

“Good,” approves Sirius, content with himself and Prongs. “Do I have to cast shackles or any retaining spell?” 

“That won’t be necessary,” promises James, “I’ll be good tonight.” 

“Perfect,” Sirius approves for the second time in a row. “Now--” 

Before his brother tells him to, James raises his wand and casts the couple lights of the bedroom out. Sirius nods but doesn’t use again that condescending, irritating voice with James--just sinks into his bed and his pillow, already dozing off. 

“Night, Prongs.” 

“Night, Padfoot.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How I picture an usual, early breakfast at Hogwarts with the Marauders roaming the School.

Everyday breakfasts at Hogwarts are usually relatively quiet. Students are still half asleep and without energy knowing the harsh day that’s waiting ahead of them, with different difficult classes. Some are doing last-minute homework over the meal; others are going over an imminent exam’s subject. The most coherent and intelligent conversations raise, in fact, from the staff's table, peaceful, most of them concerning some subject, some news on the papers or a particular student’s overall grades and career future.  
   
And despite today’s no exception, even though it’s barely half past eight and _has_ to be some sort of school record on pranks early in the morning, no-one’s too worried when the peace is suddenly shattered by a tremendous explosion, followed by shrieks, yelling and ten different kinds of swear words and insults, some of which shouldn’t be said in front of 1st and 2nd year students.  
   
That’s probably why the most unsettled section of the audience are, overall, 1st year students, who look around in fright--but it only takes them ten more seconds than the rest of the Great Hall to understand the situation. The rest of the students only raise their heads to run a most foreseen check-up: three heads are missing. The greasy dark-haired one from the Slytherin table, and two more from the Gryffindor one, the red as the color of desire one, and the incorrigible, messy, pointing at every way one. After checking that out, every one returns to business as usual; they already know what’s happened.  
   
It’s actually so normal and usual nowadays that three particular students from Gryffindor, those surrounding the two missing spots on their table, haven’t even raised their heads out of curiosity after the mayhem. They’d noticed upon entering the Hall that one Severus Snape was missing; and knew beforehand James wasn’t planning on showing up, Merlin knew why--and was also aware of their lack of interest in knowing what had he planned now against Severus.  
   
The one thing everyone seems curious about is, rather, who’ll react first to the commotion perpetrated this time by one Mr. Potter--and so, many of the glances are headed towards the Staff table. None of the teachers look too happy, or too ecstatic, about taking charge on this one, not even Gryffindor’s Head of House. They see her drinking the last sip of tea, take something small from her robes and lays it on the table, within the Headmaster’s reach--later some’d argue that it was a galleon and she was paying off some kind of debt with Dumbledore--and leaves the dais through the corridor amongst the tables.  
   
She advances in complete silence, broken only by her steps on the stone floor. She stops right where was expected--facing those three Gryffindor boys. The smallest one drops his head to the ground to avoid eye contact and try to stop his chuckles; the black-haired, elegant and noble-air one flashes McGonagall a huge grin above his shoulder; and the tallest, tired-looking guy with scars all over his face and arms, whose friends will scowl and use an Unforgivable Curse on anyone if they dare to look at Mr. Lupin suspiciously for too long, looks away briefly from the book on the table and nods once at their Head of House, sullenly, anticipating her words.  
   
“Don’t worry, ma’am, I’ll inform the three of them they’re on detention for next Saturday’s morning. And Mr. Potter and Miss Evans will report to you this afternoon, at your office,” he says, flatly, knowing only too well what the Professor was going to say. “I’m sure none of them are physically hurt and will be able to assist all of today’s classes. Weren’t that the case, I’ll escort them to Madame Pomfrey and I’ll get you her report this afternoon as well, ma’am.”  
   
Since she’s got nothing else to add, she nods once, as if thanking him the taking off her shoulders some of her responsibilities. Thankfully or not, after so many detentions and punishments, those four know the penalties for the havoc they create ever so often. When she sits down again at her seat on the Staff’s table, that small object between her seat and Albus’s gone already, everyone’s looking the other way, worried again about their breakfast, or at least pretending to, returning to the normality they knew before the brief interruption.  
   
Half an hour later all students and members of the Staff start filing out of the Hall, as they finish their breakfast, haltingly, without any kind of rush--including one Minerva McGonagall, who prefers not to meet eye-to-eye with any of the perpetrators. Mainly students from first years and those who have some test or quiz are the first to leave; others don’t bother to pick up their books or check their robes, not just yet, with plenty of time to spare just yet.  
   
At that precise moment one of the parties of the skirmish decides to show up at the Great Hall for breakfast. Mr. Potter’s appearance would have gone unnoticed hadn’t he appeared with a blue eye and a limp, a hand up to his sore jaw, caressing it carefully to ease the pain. The few remaining students on their tables stare at him in disbelief, not daring to ask what’s caused said injuries, as Mr. Potter walks forwards slowly, minding his injuries, to his group of friends. Besides scooting away to allow him a bit more space on the bench, out of the three boys, only one of them looks a little bit astonished to see James like this--Peter eyes him from head to toes, eyebrows frowned. The rest of the Gryffindor group, Dorcas, Marlene, Frank, Alice, glare at James as well, but are too afraid to ask. 

“Merlin--What happened?” whispers Peter. 

“Seriously, Wortmail? Do you _really_ want to ask that question?” demands Remus without raising his eyes from the book on the table. 

“It’s fairly obvious,” adds Sirius, handing his brother a plate with eggs, bacon and a bowl with oatmeal on milk. 

“Mind your own business, do me that favor,” begs James with a scowl, not touching the plate. “Some ice would help, do you mind?” he asks. 

Even though the request wasn’t addressed to anyone in particular, at once a bucket filled to the tops with ice cubes appears in front of James. He pushes away the breakfast Padfoot’s handed him, however delicious it all looks and smells, grabs a couple of ices enveloped with a napkin and rests it against his blueish chin, letting out a low moan afterwards. 

“Don’t want any details, but whatever you’d planned backfired, didn’t it?” asks Sirius, barely holding back the laughter raising at the back of the throat. 

“Why in the name of magic do you insist on hexing Sniv--Severus in front of Evans? It’s over, you’ve got her, now stand down and try to make it to graduation day alive,” whispers an exasperated Remus. 

“I didn’t start it,” scowls James. “Snivel--Severus did. Evans responded. I got in the middle of it to stop her--” 

He stops talking all of a sudden and spits some blood on the floor. Wiping off the liquid from his lips and chin with the napkin, grabs a couple more ice cubes, the prior ones melted already, grabbing the smallest one to place it inside his mouth. 

“Charming,” scoffs Alice, whose feet were inches away from the spot James’s spat at. 

“So’y,” apologizes the boy, sending her an apologetic glance that she dismisses. 

“Lily did that?” she demands, pointing at his purple eye and swelled up cheek, actually concerned about the girl’s doing. 

“‘he pobab’y cud hawe ‘it--” 

Remus hits James on the shoulder to make him stop talking. “Hey, write it down or take that thing out of your mouth, otherwise you sound like the stupid brat you look like.”

In an exasperated roll of eyes, James spits the ice cube on his hand--laying it on the napkin and placing it some inches apart--to be able to speak properly. Or as best as he can, considering the swelling on his cheek, which might indicate a nasty cut on the lip or the gum, or even a loose tooth. 

“She didn’t give a damn who was aiming at, really,” he explains. “If she’d killed any of us she’d be equally happy.” 

“You might have a point there,” accepts Dorcas, patting James on his arm. 

“Look, I’m trying--” 

He doesn’t get to finish that sentence; all of a sudden his eyes bat open, he sends a hand up to his throat. He chokes and coughs for some seconds--till he spits again. This time what comes out of his mouth it’s a tooth. It bounces a few times on the wood table, before it stands still over a drool of saliva and blood. The Gryffindor students don’t react to that sight in any way for some long seconds--and the ones who do respond, such as Sirius or Remus, only sigh in despair and drop the subject even before they start it. 

Moony shuts the book he was checking and raises his wand at James, in a threatening way, that makes the boy flinch and raise his hands reflexively, in spite of knowing Remus wouldn’t hex him being as injured as he is. 

“Off to Madame Pomfrey, _now_ ,” he orders softly, but a command after all. 

James waves a hand to dismiss it, reaching for the eggs Sirius’d handed him earlier. 

“It’s just--” 

“A loose tooth, James,” scowls his brother. “If you keep this up you won’t have any teeth on your dentition by the time you reach your thirties.” 

“That’s assuming he does get to his thirties,” adds Alice, “and someone hasn’t killed him by then.” 

“That someone being Lily, not You-Know-Who, don’t flatter yourself,” jokes Frank. 

“I second that,” agrees Wormtail, snickering. 

“Very nice, guys,” scowls James, not knowing who should he first address his insults, or physical attack, to, but does nothing of that sort--he’s way too sore this early in the morning for such an exercise. 

“Yes, it’s all fun and games, until it’s not,” agrees Remus. “Go to the infirmary, James, really. Minnie won’t be happy with you missing classes if it’s not allowed by the nurse’s say-so.” 

James grunts, but figures that, deep down, Remus is right and only talks on his behalf. Despite everything, he grabs with a spoon a portion of the scrambled eggs and puts it into his mouth, because after all, he hasn’t eaten anything yet. But some seconds later, it seems it’s too painful for the boy--an outcome Moony had predicted, but preferred not to mention out loud if James was about to be a jerk thickhead and do whatever he wanted in the end. Prongs swallows the eggs with tears in his eyes and immediately reaches for the ice cubes. 

“ _Will you go to Madame Pomfrey already?_ ” demands Sirius when James refuses to eat anything else. 

“Yes, yes, I am,” scowls James, barely moving his lips. “What'd Minnie say?” 

Wormtail and Padfoot burst out laughing; Remus breathes in deeply, trying to cool it; and the rest of the Gryffindor sixth-year gang cocks their head, some wondering the best way of breaking it to the boy, the others just disbelieving he can’t answer that question himself. 

“She didn’t say anything, exactly,” explains Moony. “Didn’t have to.” 

As it was expected, James also gets it without any explanation or more explicit words and nods once, accepting his punishment as easily, used to it by now. Can't come as a surprise for the teenage boy. 

“I’m to report to her this afternoon, aren’t I?” 

“Did you expect anything else?” demands Sirius. 

“Guess not. And now I better leave before I pass out,” he adds, spinning around on the bench, a hand up his cheek, as if that helped matters one bit. 

“Do you need help getting there?” asks Alice with touching concern. “It is three floors to the infirmary.” 

“He got here on his own, he’ll be able to get to the Hospital Wing,” replies Frank. Not being rude or pitiful, just honest; James doesn’t need either their assistance. Was he in need of a shoulder or anything, the rest of the Marauders would have volunteered at once; and his brother would be on his feet already. But James can manage on his own. 

“Don’t worry, darling, it’s not that far,” replies James. 

Despite his swallowed cheek and one tooth lost, he exchanges a knowing look with the other three Marauders and smiles as best as he can, a crooked grin that resembles nothing to his usual irritating one. Even so, he receives grins from the three other boys as a response. The rest of the gang are lost but don’t ask; it’s best not to interfere with or try to understand some kind of a private joke amongst these four. Specially when it seems to involve the Hospital Wing and the ways of getting there; they all prefer a ticket to the Infirmary when they’re truly ill, not hexed. 

“Be careful,” begs Dorcas as James raises lamely. 

“I’ll give you my notes in the evening,” promises Remus, even if he knows James might not take a single look at them. 

“Get some rest and see you for lunch,” adds Sirius, eyeing his brother, concerned in the end. Due to personal experience, though, his diagnosis might be just right: in a couple hours Madame Pomfrey can mend that tooth and reduce the swelling and the purple eye. They’ll be seeing James again today--unfortunately to some. 

James winks at them both, thanking silently their concern. His last gesture before leaving for good is wave his wand, at the general direction of the table; his blood both on the table and on the floor, plus his tooth, disappear instantly, so both surfaces shine as brightly as before anyone started eating. Even so, everyone’s lost their appetite. 

But it’s not time for class, not yet, anyway, for some of them. As soon as James turns towards the staircases, disappearing from everyone’s sight and concerned minds’, Frank raises from his seat and sits down by Alice’s side, who greets him with a broad smile and a gentle kiss on his nose. 

“You’re not done eating, you know that,” whispers Frank. 

At that, Alice spins to look up at him, without understanding. Her boyfriend has never controlled what she eats nor commanded her to keep a more healthy diet. After all, why deprive themselves of such pleasures, if they might not live long to enjoy them? 

“What’d you mean?” 

“There’s something else for you,” says Frank, winking at her. 

“After all that show? No, thanks, I can’t eat a thing,” she promises in a scowl, signaling with a nod of her head to the spot where James’ tooth fell to. 

“Come on, don’t be such a spoiled-party,” begs Frank. 

“It’s Tuesday morning, what can you expect of--” 

Instead of answering to her or trying to make her stop bickering, Frank addresses someone else altogether--even someone who’s not physically in front of them, by leaning forward and raising his voice. 

“Whenever you want, please, Bromby.” 

Curiosity taking over most of the Gryffindor table students, even Remus raises his head and turns towards the couple when notices Frank’s spoken to an empty dish. He’d clearly plotted something with one of the kitchen house-elves; two seconds after his kind words, so different from James’s, the silver tray in front of Alice comes to life once more, with an enormous three-tiered chocolate cake separated by what looks like a cream layer. 

Now more interested than ever, the succulent dessert is met by surprised awes and some applauses; but no-one dares to cut a piece of the cake after Frank’s stern look. Only then do they realize Alice is gawking at something on the top of the cake that only she can see--Frank may have perpetrated this on a crowded Hall, but had planned the surprise to be private. 

Even so, Alice, eyebrows frowned, looks up to him in confusion. 

“ _White Venom Mi?_ ” 

Remus smiles--being the only one who understands, even partially. Padfoot, Wormtail, Marlene even Dorcas try to get closer to the couple to hear the explanation, but he snaps his fingers and silently commands them all to sit down again; seems a bit too private. Frank, appreciating it, though Remus doubts he’s noticing anything that happens around him at this moment, grins broadly at Alice. 

“You’re good at this, figure it out,” he challenges. 

Alice nods upon understanding it’s an anagram that, indeed, she’s quite good at. She solves every day’s papers anagrams within two minutes, when Sirius needs at least six, James and Lily, even if she claims to need seven minutes, eight, Remus ten if he ever solves it and Peter doesn’t even try. But Alice, thrilled once more, biting her lower lip, puts herself to it eagerly, looking down on the cake, which has probably been kept by a frozen charming. 

Proving her skills one more time, in less than two minutes Alice gasps. Everyone, including couple students from other Houses, looks up to her immediately, to see nothing’s changed much, apparently. Her eyes are bat open, she looks like she’s stopped breathing and she turns around slowly towards Frank, who awaits her eagerly--though ‘nervous’ would be the appropriate word, they reckon. 

“So?” he demands after some seconds of complete silence. 

“Are you seriously asking--?” 

“Depends on what you read,” stops Frank, looking down on the cake. 

“Is it a joke?!” she shrieks, grabbing him by the arm, with such strength and pressure that it must hurt him. 

“We talked about it and you seemed willing to do it. Didn’t you?" he asks in the end, anxious when, after all, Alice hasn’t given him a straight answer nor looks capable of doing so. 

“Yes, we did!” chokes her. “And no, I’m not unwilling to--I mean--Yes, I am--Sorry, what I’m trying to say--” 

Frank bursts out laughing, finally getting what he must interpret as an answer, pulling her close and letting her rest on his chest in order to put a stop to her rambling. As none of them seems at all interested in explaining anything to their friends, some stand up from their seats and take a look at the cake--the words Alice uttered earlier are written on small, round sweets, all different colors. But the clue to the puzzle is nowhere to be seen and much less, the reason to Alice’s reaction. 

“Yes, I will. YES!” Laughs her in the end, still in Frank’s arms. 

That’s finally what snaps their friends out of it, as they understand all at the same time. 

“Wait--is this a wedding proposal?!” shrieks Dorcas, getting up from her seat, many of their classmates joining her. Sirius and Remus have got their wands on their hands and are more than ready to celebrate this event on a broader scale; a couple spells to change the wizard ceiling are already at the tip of their tongues--right to the moment they see they’ve misunderstood things. 

“Wha--NO!” shriek the couple, eyes bat open in fright, pulling away from each other as they beg the rest of the table to sit down again and hold their horses. 

“Then what in the world--” 

“He just asked me to move in with him!” explains Alice, rolling her eyes. 

“Please, guys, we’re only on seventh grade and I’m not even of age yet,” scowls Frank, “how could you think--?”

“It was a fair assumption,” replies Dorcas, sitting down again, clearly disappointed, “you’ve been dating for three years and a half now--it’s going to happen eventually, isn’t it? Haven’t you given it a thought?” 

“Not just yet!” shrieks Alice, still resting against Frank’s chest. 

“Either way, guys, congratulations,” says Remus sweetly, big grin, raising to shake Frank’s hand and kiss Alice gently on the cheek.

“Thanks, man,” they both appreciate. 

Upon Moony’s appropriate response everyone mirrors his elegant, righteous actions and finally the couple gets the expected reactions they’d been waiting for--as everyone congratulates them on this big, enormous and important step. 

“Don’t you dare,” scowls Frank when he sees Sirius taking his wand off again. 

“Come on, you can’t really ask me _not_ to--What with Prongs gone--” begs the man, pulling off his usual puppy-eyes face. 

“The thought is more valuable to us,” promises Alice, knowing it’s one of the only ways to put a stop to any of the Marauders, who’re always up to anything, even when they’ve just heard about such piece of news that might lead to any kind of public celebration. 

“Fine,” accepts Padfoot, putting away his wand, not at all content, causing a roar of laughter all around him--being the only one feeling the slightest blue around the Gryffindor table. 

“So, where are you going to live?” 

Frank looks sideways at Alice so she gets to answer Dorca’s question. Maybe this move wasn’t as planned as they’d thought. She smiles shyly, turning red again when she’d managed to cool it after all the attention. 

“Guess there’s time till the end of the semester to find a place?” she says, her sentence ending up in a question, looking for Frank’s acceptance or input. 

He nods as a response, caressing her shoulder. “Sounds like a plan, then. Should we take this weekend off?” 

“I’d love nothing more,” she whispers, caressing his chin. 

Despite the feelings and emotions giving off from her tone, everyone catches the slight flicker of her eye and those in the loop sadly understand her true feelings. She and Frank might just be able to fulfill their wishes if there isn’t an extraordinary Order meeting or an out-of-the-blue attack from Death Eaters. 

“And what’s it going to be, a Muggle neighborhood or a Wizard one?” presses Dorcas, as if they hadn’t just said they had to start looking for places to move in. 

They share another look and it seems everything’s said with it. 

“We both come from magic families, I guess it’s going to be a Wizard place,” says Alice. 

“Plus, I’d like to be close to my mom, if that’s not a problem,” adds Frank, eyeing his girlfriend wearily, worried that it might be. 

“Uh-uh; that could potentially be a deal breaker, Frank,” chuckles Marlene, hitting the man on the shoulder. 

“But what will be a problem is the fact that we’re late,” Remus interjects before anyone says something else that might drag the conversation even further, “which won’t do with Minnie’s mood after Prongs’ stunt.” 

Knowing he’s right, everyone starts packing their school bags at once, without bothering to check the time for confirmation--Remus wouldn’t joke about being late for Potions class, not on a Tuesday. Plus, as they file out of the Great Hall they realize they’re the last ones loitering in the place; and that the left overs and dishes from other tables have already vanished. As it couldn’t have been any other way, Frank and Alice linger a few feet behind the rest of the classmates, him carrying her back, out of manner. 

“Though on the other hand, Frank, however romantic that proposal was,” Alice scowls as they descend the stairs to the dungeons. 

“I was reaching for ‘marvelous’, to be honest. What’d I do?” he chuckles, his laughter echoing off the stone walls and narrow staircases. 

“Asking me to move in seconds after James was pulling out teeth from his mouth,” she explains, rolling her eyes in a disgusted expression. 

“Oh,” reflects the poor man, sounding truly distraught due to his timing. “Didn’t think about it. Sorry.” 

“That’s alright. I love you the more for doing it either way,” she promises, leaning in to kiss him. But that doesn’t help placating his frustration entirely. 

“Well, I can’t never tell when those are up to something. I had to improvise,” he tries to explain defensively, even a little bit annoyed. 

“I’m sorry, man,” says Sirius behind them. “You should have told us. We would have kept an eye on Prongs and ordered him to refrain from preparing any prank on Sn--Severus.” 

“The problem is,” replies Marlene, exposing the facts exasperatedly by Sirius’s side, “the last few times they got in a feud wasn’t because James’d planned something to humiliate or embarrass Severus--the quarrel started because they’d locked eyes. Quite difficult to put a stop to that.” 

“Can’t say that’s not true,” whispers Sirius. 

“Plus, even if it were humanly possible to avoid setting off the spark between those two, you couldn’t have stopped James, had he truly been up to something,” adds Dorcas. 

“Yes, we could have,” chimes Peter, almost insulted to be thought of incompetent. 

“Not in your lifetime,” replies Marlene. 

“He listens--now and then,” promises Sirius. “Haven’t you noticed it’s easier talking and reasoning to him this year?”

“He did listen when I advised him against having a swim at the Great Lake in the midst December,” reckons Dorcas, “but maybe that was only because he remembered the hypothermia he got when he pulled the same thing last year.”

“Come on. Evans wouldn’t be dating Prongs hadn’t he grown a bit.” 

“Can’t deny that,” sighs Alice. 

“And even so, guys, this proposal was meant to be a surprise,” says Frank, chuckling under his breath. “How many people should have been on the loop of it for the surprise to work out? The whole school, including the Staff?” 

“Maybe you’ve got a point,” reasons Alice, cocking her head as she tries to imagine that situation. Plus, even if it wasn’t for the sake of keeping a surprise secret, gossip spreads like powder around this Castle. 

“Hey, we can keep secrets,” promises Peter. 

And those aren’t hollow words, everyone knows that, even if they don’t dare to mention it out loud--the four Marauders have kept Remus’s werewolf condition secret from their classmates for most of their academic years at Hogwarts. The fact that every single seventh-year Gryffindor students is aware of it relies on other reasons altogether. 

“No, really, Frank, we wouldn’t have sabotaged your proposal,” insists Remus, as usual trying to avoid this one delicate issue when he’s not alone with the Marauders. 

“It’s OK,” laughs the poor man. “It wasn’t something as big as a wedding proposal.” 

“Oh? So you _have_ considered it,” Marlene points out, hitting Frank on the stomach. 

“Think you’re planning just a little bit ahead of you, mister,” laughs Dorcas. “Alice’s just accepted moving in with you, nothing else.” 

“Darling--please shut up.” 

His low scowl’s the last sentence of their conversation they can utter before entering the Potions classroom. They make their way to their seats, Frank And Alice leaning specially close onto each other, actually sharing a book between the two, right as Professor Slughorn appears from a secondary door, greeting the double class of Ravenclaws and Gryffindors. He remarks on Evans’s absence--not James’s, probably blessing it--before ordering them to open the books.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sun is merely setting and Remus finds himself with a big problem way before the transformation begins, and James comes to the rescue. Prefect Evans and cute scene with Professor Minnie. Prongs, Wormtail and Padfoot already achieved to become Animagi.

“NO! Are you kidding me?! Fuck! MERLIN’S BALLS!” 

Everyone in the Gryffindor Common Room has heard perfectly fine the man’s voice six stories up and hence, every student’s head shots up in shock after recognizing the voice of their prefect, none of them used to hearing such foul language from Remus Lupin. They obviously aren’t that much around the boy--the Marauders have heard him curse at teachers when they assign too much homework, blaspheming at a table’s foot when he’s hit his little toe, insulting his loathed meal when it was on the menu, throwing a book across the room because it doesn’t explain correctly something, or literally giving up on Divination. And that situation worsens a lot more this time of month, when he could easily be insulting one of the Marauders for simply awakening him for classes, or reminding him of some homework. 

Slowly all heads turn towards James, the only Marauder present, from whom they expect to do something proactive about Remus. He himself has nothing else up his sleeve besides forcing an unconvincing laughter pretending everything’s fine and then excusing himself for leaving the Common Room. No-one barely believes him, so before he climbs the first step, he looks at Lily, back on the couch by the fireplace, the only person who seems to understand the situation; even when she has no clue about what’s going on, she nods, acknowledging the task on her hands, that is, to control the Common Room and the curious students. James is confident she’s perfectly capable of being in charge of the whole Common Room, after all, she’s been handling the Marauders for a couple years now, it shouldn’t be that hard for her. 

James climbs the stairs two steps at a time till he’s at the sixth floor, knocks on the door and enters without waiting for an answer, closing the door behind him. Remus is the only one in the dormitory, curled up in a ball against his bed, knees up to his chest, arms tight around his legs, head buried in the back of his elbow, murmuring something under his breath that now, James can’t quite catch. 

“This a new method of meditation, Moony?” he asks, kneeling before his friend. 

Remus doesn’t look up instantly and it takes James a full minute--so close to the full moon, Remus is usually a lot stronger than any of them, or even, than all of them together--to raise his head and force him to look straight at him. 

“What’s with the torture, mate?”

He shakes his head first to his right, then left, glittery eyes. 

“It’s just--I’m exhausted, I’m aching, and I still haven’t transformed yet. And then **that** happens,” he adds, downplaying the effects of the wolf and the full moon, signaling towards his desk. 

James stands up and goes to the desk, immediately seeing the problem and fully understanding Remus’ outburst. The ink pot has toppled and now a great amount of black, thick ink is spreading around the desk and over four or five of Remus’ parchments, dropping to the chair and the ground, creating a small swimming pool below James’ feet. This must be all the homework the poor man has been doing all afternoon. And considering the amount of essays they’ve got this year, being a NEWTs year, he’s surprised Remus isn’t hexing everything and everyone within a five mile radius. 

Stepping away from the ink on the floor, James takes out his wand and stops the ink spreading further with a simple “Aresto momentum”. Then he goes to his own desk and grabs half a dozen new parchments, leaving them close to Remus’ desk but also out of ink’s harm. He then takes one of Remus’ parchments, completely soaked in black ink, and says “Impervium”, which usually makes an object repel water, but on their second year, during one of their misdemeanors, they discovered it can be used on common objects to repel a great variety of liquids. Now he’s got two parchments brand new, but uses the Revealing Charm on the Remus’ one, and so, the original handwriting starts to appear. Again, in one of their pranks they figured out that the Aparecium spell doesn’t only refers to invisible ink, but also to something that was written before and has disappeared, even without the intention of deleting its existence. He lays aside the parchment, over Remus’ bed, and moves on to the next assignment. By the corner of his eye he sees Remus coming closer, interested in what he’s doing, but he doesn’t stop his chore. 

Less than two minutes later, the disaster’s avoided and all six parchments are drying over Remus’ bed, out of peril, since he isn’t sleeping in the dormitory tonight. James turns around, surprisingly without that uppermost smirk on his face, and Remus lets out an enormous sigh, seeing how easily the situation’s been solved, and that he probably should have been able to figure out to do this. 

“I’m sorry for all this.” 

“You don’t have to apologize. Everything looks good?” he asks, looking over Remus’ work. And, indeed, the ink is dry now on all the parchments and Remus’ nice and perfect calligraphy shows six very well documented essays, on his usual standard. 

“Yes, thanks. The only thing, I didn’t have time to do the Transfiguration’s essay,” Remus sighs, crestfallen once again. 

“Why have you done the Potions essay instead of the Transfiguration one?” asks James, signaling the assignment he’s referring to. 

“Maybe because Potions is due tomorrow and Transfiguration’s next week?” replies Remus, bewildered tone. 

“You got that wrong, Moony,” whispers James, afraid of his best friend’s response to this. 

“No, I didn’t. It cannot--” 

“I’m afraid it is--” 

Before he can finish the sentence Remus turns around towards the wall beside his bed, where every two weeks he hangs up a schedule --half expecting his friends to follow it as well-- with all the assignments ahed of them. With all this semester’s homework James can’t understand much of the calendar, even if it’s written in Remus’ neat handwriting, but he focuses on two annotations: Trasnfiguration and Potions. And, even when he’s written them down on the right day, the title is mixed up. Where it says “Explain where can you find in Wales every ingredient for a successful Volubilis Potion” due on Friday, there should be “Advantages and disadvantages of the Piscifors and the Pullus Jinx spells in a duel” for Transfiguration due on Monday. 

“NO!” shrieks Remus. He falls down to the floor, crying openly now, curling once again in a ball. “It’s tomorrow-- I-- There’s no time now-- I can’t--” 

James kneels in front of him, holding his shoulders in order to stop his shaking. “Hey, Moony, relax. I’ll talk to Minnie, OK? She can’t deny me a favor, I’ve been acing every test and assignment this year. It’ll be OK, trust me. It’s fine, don’t worry.” It takes him a full minute to convince Remus, but he eventually succeeds, and the two of them stay a while on the floor, inhaling and exhaling deeply, recovering from Moony’s moods. 

“You should go,” says James then. “It’s getting late.” 

 Remus looks out of the window, realizing the sunset will happen soon. He nods a few times and sighs as James stands up and offers him a hand. Remus takes it without thinking, but only because they’re on their own in the dormitory. He may have had second thoughts about it if Sirius or Peter’d been there. 

“See you in a bit,” farewells James. 

“Yeah. Don’t get caught on your way.” 

“Please, you’re talking to a Marauder,” scoffs James. “We never get caught.” 

“I’d say the amount of detentions we’ve had this semester denies that, Prongs.” 

“Not on a full moon,” replies James, serious tone. And that is completely true, they usually are very careful on this occasion. 

Remus nods again with a faint smile and, without another sound, shoulders down, turns around and faces the door. He looks so downhearted that James feels obliged to say something to make him feel a little bit better, even when nothing could do so tonight. 

“Hey,” he stops Remus on the door of the dormitory, “you know that from now on, you’ll always have at least one of us for your transformations, right? That’s a promise.” 

 Remus smiles, whole-heartedly now, knowing James was speaking the truth, and being immensely happy to be aware of that. He nods once more and leaves, this time without being stopped again by Prongs. 

He stares at Moony while he closes the door and stands in the middle of the dormitory while he still hears his tired walk down the stairs. Only when he supposes Moony’s already down at the Common Room he sets in motion towards his desk, searching for his Transfiguration essay. With a couple spells he erases his name from the parchment and writes Remus’ in Moony’s handwriting, before putting it again with his stuff. Moony won’t be attending tomorrow’s Transfiguration lesson, as it’s first thing in the morning, so he can pretend he’s forgotten about the essay and that Moony asked him to deliver his essay. Prof. Minnie’ll understand Moony’s absence. And he’ll take without question any detention she may see fit. Anything for Remus--and the rest of the Marauders. 

With this, he figures it’s time to leave and gets his Invisibility Cloak before going down too to the Common Room. Everything seems quiet again, with less students present, and none of them asks him about Remus. Looking around, he doesn’t see neither Sirius or Peter, which means if they’re not back in less than one minute, he’ll have to go look for them. But, before leaving, he wants to talk to Lily. 

“Evans,” he says, sitting besides her, placing an arm around her shoulders. “Thank you for covering me and Remus’ ass.” 

“No problem at all,” she says without looking up from the book, showing it was really nothing compared to what they put her up to. 

“Plans for tonight?” he asks with a smirk, leaning closer to her. 

“Oh, I’m a very busy girl, James. I don’t need you to entertain myself,” she grants, with a loud scoff. “Homework, for one.” 

“Great night,” laughs him. 

“What would you suggest instead?”

“Anything is better than homework,” replies James. “But don’t go near the Whomping Willow tonight,” he adds as an afterthought, in a more serious tone. Or rather, concerned, as he couldn’t imagine Lily being that close to the wolf with only Padfoot and himself to protect her from Moony. It’d be catastrophic. 

Acknowledging the warning and the true risks, Lily nods. After all, in the nights of the full moon both teachers and prefects have a strict and severe “no students out of bed” rule that must be complied at all costs, no exceptions. She then glances up, looking at James right in the eye for the first time, a hint of worry on her gaze and tone. 

“Take good care of Remus tonight, will you?” 

“We will, don’t worry.” 

“And be careful. I still don’t know how--” 

“Because Moony needs us,” interjects James, stating the truth in the simplest, most concise way possible, leaning in to kiss her on the nose. “And that’s all there is to it. Don’t worry, it’s been quite a while since we’ve had any accident.” 

“That doesn’t really soothe me that much.” 

“We’ll be fine,” insists James, before kissing her lightly on the lips. “I gotta go,” he says, standing up abruptly, breaking the kiss way earlier than any of them wanted it to. “See you tomorrow.” 

Once outside of the portrait, James sees yet another obstacle tonight: Sirius and Peter are nowhere to be found, when they usually meet outside of the Common Room if they’re separated before going down to the Shrieking Shack. He sighs, blessing the fact that he knows both of them so good, and has a slight idea where he might find them, though fetching them will make them late for sure. Cursing Padfoot’s bones, he turns to the right. 

He finds Padfoot right where he was expecting him to be. And with whom he was expecting him to be. Snogging that fifth year Snaren girl from Ravenclaw, at the perfect spot. The arched windowsill with views over the Clock Tower courtyard, the grounds, Hagrid’s hut, the Forbidden Forest; and at the perfect time too, with the sunset bathing everything with an orange and pink light. But he doesn’t have the patience for them to break the passionate contact, which doesn’t look like it’s going to end soon, so James covers himself with the Cloak and raises his wand, aiming at the closest armor. With a spell he could cast in his sleep due to the times they’ve used it, he makes the knight let out a meow that sounds exactly as Mrs. Norris, which causes the effect they’ve managed so many times: the girl, in fright because of the place, time, company and activities, jumps in fright from the windowsill and looks around for Mr. Filch. 

“Hey--Come on!” begs Padfoot. 

“I have to go. It’s late,” replies the girl, keeping Sirius at arm’s length while she straightens her uniform. 

“Same time tomorrow?” asks Sirius. 

“Of course,” grants Snaren. 

Sirius leans and steals from her one last kiss before the girl starts running towards the opposite position of James, clearly trying to get away from Filch. Sirius stares after the girl, a hand over his mouth, until the girl disappears into the darkness and he turns on his heels, looking straight at his brother’s approximate position. 

“You’re mean, Prongs,” he sighs. 

The mentioned retrieves the cloak, revealing himself, without a hint of humor in his eyes or tone of voice. “And you’re late. We should be down at the Whomping Willow by now.” 

Padfoot, realizing his mistake, sets in motion at once, almost running towards the nearest stairs. James follows and the two of them can keep up a good pace thanks to all the years of Quidditch trainings, both outside and inside the school. 

“Is Wormtail already there?” asks Sirius. 

“What do you think?” 

At that, Padfoot scowls, without once slowing down a bit. 

“Don’t tell me.” 

“Have we ever been wrong about him before?” scoffs James. 

“‘Suppose not. This’d be the first time,” conceeds Sirius. 

In a couple of minutes they’re at the basement, hiding under the Invisibility Cloak from some Hufflepuffs students coming from the library to their Common Room. When everything’s silent again, Sirius reaches up and tickles the pear from the painting and just a few seconds later, he pushes the green door-knob and opens the door for him and Prongs to enter the kitchens. 

“Messrs. Potter!” squeak in delight every house-elf within a five feet range, all of them knowing better than calling Padfoot by his last name ever since their second year, the time of their first break into the kitchens. 

“Hey pals,” greets James, for once distracted from the house-elve’s attention. “We’re in a little bit of a hurry, we’re here to find--WORMTAIL!!” he ends his sentence in an ear-splitting scream when he spots him sitting gladly on a table, eating mindlessly. 

“Come on, we’ve got to go, now,” orders Sirius, raising Peter from one arm. He goes pale, understanding he’s been down here for a longer time than he’d expected--as so usually happens to him--and tries to raise from his chair, but with his hands full of bakeries, he has a hard time succeeding. 

“I only wanted to grab some things to eat,” he apologizes, stuffing more food inside his pockets. “For dinner, you know--” 

“And midnight snack, and first breakfast, and second breakfast,” scoffs Sirius, pushing Wormtail towards the entrance door. “Thank you every one, we promise we’ll be back. Have a great night,” he bids farewell to the house-elves who are following them with trays full of food. 

“I just lost track of time,” says Peter once they’re in the hallways again. 

“We all did,” interjects James. “And now we’re late. So come on, Moony’s waiting for us.” 

Sirius and Peter follow his lead immediately. Being in a hurry they don’t take as many precautions as they should have and Peter, not being in such a good shape as his partners, soon gets left behind. All of a sudden, the door of a supposedly unoccupied classroom opens and their Head of House catches Peter in the middle of the hallway, running towards the Entrance Hall, gasping for air; obviously up to something. James and Sirius quickly run backwards and stand to both sides of Wormtail, never leaving a man behind. Maybe today will be the day when they get caught in a full moon. 

McGonagall stares at the three of them alternately, eyebrows frowned a bit more every time she changes the subject of her scrutiny. The three Marauders stand as tall as possible while the seconds go by, waiting to see their Head of House reaction before trying to get themselves off any punishment. 

“You three again?” scolds finally McGonagall in a deep sigh. “I’ve lost track of your pending detentions, how many weeks till you’re free to fulfill mine for this one?” 

“Ma’am,” interjects Sirius, very slowly, almost not daring to speak, “it’s after curfew.” 

“I know very well it’s after curfew, Sirius, that’s why I’m supposed to send you again to detention,” replies Minerva. “Thank you for stating the obvious. Something else you’d want to add before--?” 

“Professor McGonagall, it’s almost dark already,” tries James again, not daring to be more specific here out in the public. She was the one who pointed them in the right direction for their Animagi research, certainly she’ll turn a blind eye and won’t punish them now for doing exactly what she encouraged them to do. And, thankfully, she looks again at the three of them before glancing up towards the sky. From this side of the castle they couldn’t see the full moon even if it was already visible, but she seems to understand the situation, and turns to look at them with a more amicable look. 

 “I see,” she says, trying to hide her pride. She’ll be damned if she stops these three students from helping poor Mr. Lupin, after everything he suffers on a monthly basis, and also, after the years it must have took the three of them to become Animagi. When, above everything else, they are taking an active part in a War being still only teenagers. “Indeed it is too late for any of you to be out of bed. So, I expect no-one, much less myself, will see you tonight again, are we clear? My lions can’t break these simple rules.” 

“Thank you, Minnie,” says Sirius, bowing and taking McGonagall’s hand to kiss it lightly. 

“However, I expect to see the three of you tomorrow morning,” she resumes, catching the three of them off guard. 

“Profes--” 

“At the infirmary, to introduce you three to Mr. and Mrs. Lupin. I think it’s about time.” 

Still aghast by the turn of events, Sirius, James and Peter can do nothing but nod at McGonagall’s idea. It is indeed true that after three years of joining Remus during his full moons, they’d told his parents the true extent of their efforts, as long as they keep it quiet, as the professors themselves. 

McGonagall nods once before showing a stern façade again. 

“Good night, gentlemen,” she says before walking down the hallway. 

They don’t even wait till she’s gone; James gets into the empty classroom, signaling Peter and Sirius to follow him too, and they all sigh in relief when they close the door behind them. 

“Merlin’s pants,” grunts Sirius. “I thought she was going to punish us.” 

“Me too,” confesses James, still breathing heavily. “So we can’t get caught again. Come one, you two,” he orders. But before he finished the sentence, Sirius and Peter are already taking off their uniforms, starting their usual full-moon plan, which they should have set in motion at once upon leaving the kitchens. 

“I think that Map will be most useful once we finish it,” whispers Peter, still in fright. 

 “It’d be much more helpful if we could see the names of the people on it, Wormtail,” scowls Sirius, starting to undress. 

“Maybe we should ask Remus for help,” suggests him. “I’m sure he’d know what the problem is.” 

“We can ask him some other time,” interjects James sharply, by the door, listening in case someone else approaches their position. “Come on, change now,” he hurries. 

In one instant Padfoot’s in front of him, barking excitedly till James can stop him. Peter has a harder time transforming, but he’s a rat in less than one minute, which in all, is a great improvement. Nodding, James covers himself with the Cloak before opening the door and letting Peter get out. Within another minute, he comes back, meaning that there’s nobody around. Sirius comes out first and James follows as silent as he can. They follow this strategy, Peter in advance to check the path, till they’re out of the castle and they are free to run as much as they can, but still out there James doesn’t take off the cloak, just in case. Above all, now he’s the only one who could get them in trouble, as his footsteps are the loudest and he’s panting, something that a rat or a dog don’t suffer from. He only takes the Cloak off when they’re at the Whomping Willow; Wormtail, in advance, has already pressed the knot to stop the tree from attacking, and without doubting, the three of them jump into the whole on the ground.

When they stand up they hear the first cries of pain from the transformation and start running again. The tunnels are too narrow and low for James to transform just yet and he once more slows down the entourage, but luckily, the transformation will last still a few minutes--the shortest they’ve seen was two minutes, and fifteen minutes the longest of them--time more than enough for them to arrive at the Shrieking Shack. Even so, they force themselves as much as they can, wanting to be there for their friend as soon as possible, even when he’s never allowed them to be in the same room as him during the actual transformation. But usually they’re in the Shrieking Shack with him for a while before it all begins. James can sense in the frantic pace of his friends that he’s not the only one who regrets being late. At least Remus knows them well enough to understand they haven’t stand him up at all. And in just a few minutes’ time, the four of them will be running wildly around the grounds and the Forbidden Forest. They’ve been talking about exploring the Forest a bit more, as by now they know the grounds inch by inch.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's this one little thing James wanted to ask Lily ever since first year, but she didn't say yes till their seventh year at Hogwarts.

It took a lot of persuasion and talking her into. It took coaxing, some bribing, a bit of begging and emotional blackmail, even attempts at coercing. It took a few rounds of sex. It took time and great leaps of effort from the four Marauders. It took the pissing off all the students in Gryffindor who were there for the arguments and pleading. But in the end, she said yes. She regretted it the next second, because she’d just said the word to get the four boys to shut up, but she couldn't go back on her word; it's against her basic principles.

Everything was planned and on the docket within a couple days, much to Lily’s surprise and dismay--she should have guessed the Marauders had been up to it ever since James first started his attempts at convincing her, so she wouldn’t have time to reconsider. Before she knew it, she found herself immersed in something she wasn’t really prepared for and wasn’t certain wanted to do. 

It was a Monday afternoon, the day prior to the beginning of their NEWT exams, so most students were having anxiety attacks at the library and the lucky bastards who didn’t have to study enjoyed the beautiful day out in the fields under the sun, so the chances of being discovered were slim. So all was good, perfect even, according to the four boys. That wouldn’t be Lily’s words of choice exactly. 

She can’t explain herself why on Earth she’s at the Potions classroom while the four Marauders are preparing a cauldron and the ingredients for the potion she personally made up and has written on a piece of parchment, a recipe meant to fail. Once again she reminds herself it’s way too late to leave now--what would she say? How would they look at her if she did?--although it’s probably the one thing she wants to do. 

“It’s set, time to shine, Lils,” says James, gently pushing her towards the cauldron, the water already boiling. “There’s already ash-winder egg in there.” 

“OK,” almost yells Lily, to get James’ paws off her. “From this moment on, I’m in charge of this--no one else touches it. We don’t want it to go wrong.” 

“But we do want that,” says Peter. 

“We want the potion to go wrong, the good way,” replies Lily. “I don’t plan to blow off the Potions classroom.” 

“To be honest, I wouldn’t mind it,” chuckles Remus. 

“Hey!” This time Lily can’t stop herself and she yells to get everyone’s attention and the four of them immediately stop snickering--wouldn’t want Evans to report them. “You follow my orders word for word, is that understood?” 

“Yes, ma’am,” they accept formally, such manners Lily wishes they’d shown her years ago. 

“Peter, here’s the list of ingredients, you keep ‘em coming,” she instructs, making a copy of the recipe and handing it to the boy. “Remus, you’re in charge of the scales. Exactly the quantity it says, not one more gramme, not a gramme less.” 

The two boys, each with a copy of the original parchment, bow their heads slightly and leave the boiling cauldron, the first for the adjacent room to the Potions classroom, the second for the shelves to grab one of the scales. In the meantime, Lily turns to face Sirius and James, surprised to find them equally willing to heed her orders. 

“Sirius, I’ll be asking you to lower or raise the flame and to tir the potion clockwise or anti-clockwise,” she says, “do not mess it up. And as for you, James--just stay out of my way,” she finishes in a scowl. 

She probably could have said it differently, or she could have given him any other kind of order--James’ inflated attitude drops in one instant, and judging by the sudden silence and freeze around the classroom, she can guess the other Marauders have stopped breathing also. She sighs, disbelieving she has to take care of her boyfriend to this degree, before giving in. It is, after all, the very first--and probably last--prank they’re going to perform together. She can give him that. 

“We’re going to need as well three branches of Asphodel and one of Dittany,” she reports, not looking at James because she won’t stand seeing him now. “Go with Remus and cut exactly what we need. Later I’ll tell you what to pour on the potion. If you mess it up, Potter--” 

“That won’t happen,” promises James, leaning in for a very brief kiss on her forehead, avoiding her lips that can very well hurt him by biting him back. “I’ll follow your very order.” 

“Wish that could have happened back in first year!” scowls Lily in a shriek, as James leaves hurriedly her personal space. 

“That never could have been,” grins James over his shoulder, already by Remus’ side, who’s carefully and slowly measuring on the scale every other ingredient they need. 

Knowing that argument’ll mount to nothing and has no reason to take place now of all times, Lily takes her wand to check the boiling water and looks up at Remus, who can finally concentrate with the blessed silence. He now and then nods at Peter, who scratches off something on the list, so they know at all times where they stand and how much work there’s still left. 

“Whenever you’re ready, Moony,” she says, her voice lower and sweeter than before. 

“Just a minute,” begs the boy without looking up from the scale. 

Lily nods once, encouragingly, even if Moony and Wormtail can’t see her, and looks at Sirius, who’s leaning on a nearby table, so he lowers the flames under the cauldron, until Remus is finished with the first ingredients they need. 

Over the course of the next thirty minutes, James, Remus and Peter hand her the ingredients she asks for so they’re all in the appropriate order, Sirius keeps a close eye on the fire in order to lower or increase it whenever Lily tells him to, and James stirs the mixture on the cauldron with his wand, clockwise or anti-clockwise, according to Lily’s precise instructions. They show so much interest and investment in her work and the results of their ensemble efforts that Lily has to wonder--when she’s got two seconds off from looking over everyone’s work to make sure they really don’t mess it all up--what would it have looked like had they attended all their subjects with such dedication. 

They’re not even half-way through the experiment when they hear noises and movement coming from one of the adjacent rooms, the one Prof. Slughorn uses to reach Potions classroom, since it’s the shortest way from his office. They all freeze, except for Lily’s wand that in automatic movements keeps stirring the greenish liquid in the cauldron--but apart from that, they all have their eyes on the door that’s bound to be opened and find the five of them in here. 

“Lock it,” Lily orders in a whisper. 

There was time--even Peter could have heed her order and blocked Prof. Slughorn access to his own classroom. But this is her first order that no one listens to and this fact almost gets her yelling--they should have far better reflexes than that, considering the experience seven years of mischief-making gives them. 

In the end, Professor Slughorn finally reaches the Potion classroom and inevitably finds them surrounding a boiling cauldron, clearly up to something. The realization makes the Professor freeze as well, at the other end of the room, one hand on the doorknob. 

“What--” 

“Couldn’t wipe his memory, could you?” asks Lily in a whisper, knowing the Professor won’t be able to hear her. 

“Good afternoon, Prof. Slughorn,” greets James, his voice loud and clear, almost as if he wasn’t nervous at all, “forgot something?” 

The man looks down on his hands, where he’s holding a few Potions books. 

“Yeah, just wanted to check a few things before the exams tomorrow--And what are you five doing here? Miss Evans?” he demands in the end, her presence there utterly astonishing him. If it were just the boys, he’d know they were up to something and sent them all for detention already, but what with her, his star student, being there as well. . . 

“We’re here for the exams,” she says, somehow keeping her voice even despite the blatant lie to a teacher. “Peter was unsure he could pass the Potions exam and so he asked me to give him a hand.” 

“Mr. Pettigrew did?” repeats Prof. Slughorn, stepping into the room despite Lily’s best wishes. 

“Well, I volunteered, too,” nods Lily, uncertain too if her smile is believable at all. 

“I see,” nods the man, appreciatively, looking down on the cauldron. “Helping him with a Forgetful Potion, then?” 

Lily looks down on the cauldron as well, just in case he was trying to confuse her, but it wasn’t a set-up: the current color of their potion could be that of an early stage Forgetful Potion. Oh, if it were, and if it was done, she’d make Prof. Slughorn try it so he’d retain no memory of this meeting. 

“Yes, sir,” she nods. “We’ve scarcely began, so--” 

“I understand,” says the Professor, stepping backwards without any other question. “It is very kind of you to give your peers a hand when you should be studying yourself too.” 

“Figured I could spare an afternoon, sir,” replies Lily, bowing her head slightly to respond to the teacher’s praise. 

“Alright, then, keep up the good work,” says Horace, winking at the young girl. “And I’ll see you all Wednesday morning for the exam.” 

With those words he finally leaves the classroom by the same door he came in through and, just to make sure, James does lock the door after a few seconds. In the meantime, a smug expression has appeared on the four boy’s faces, whereas on Lily’s case, she’s almost hyperventilating, holding onto a table. 

“My Lord,” she scowls, sending a hand to her chest. “This is the last time I ever help you, guys, I give you my word.” 

“Oh, please,” scoffs James, grinning widely, “you did great. Almost a natural.” 

“It was easy because the poor man trusts me,” replies Lily. “Feels wrong taking advantage of that.” 

“Come on, if you knew what’s good, you’d be taking advantage of that every single day till the end of the school year,” chuckles Sirius. “Few teachers would believe you’d be involved in any mayhem or trouble. You’d be unstoppable.”  
“But I don’t want to be unstoppable,” says Lily, piercing them with her glare. “At least, not inside the Castle, not because of some stupid pranks.” 

“Stupid pranks--” repeats James in disbelief, looking as if those words had physically hurt him somehow. 

“Hey, all’s good, alright?” promises Sirius, interjecting James before he starts making a bigger fuss than needed. “He trusted you--there’s no way he’s about to warn Minnie or Dumbledore or put us in detention. It’s OK.” 

“Plus, you’re getting the full pranking experience,” says Remus, “which is the reason why James wanted you to do this so badly.” 

The aforementioned boy grins even more broadly and wickedly, to Lily’s dismay, who once more wishes looks could kill. “Care to explain, Potter?” 

“Come on, this wouldn’t have been a good prank if you hadn’t gotten the whole package experience,” he explains, dismissing her anger. “The thrill of being somewhere you’re not supposed to be, doing something you’re definitely not supposed to do, preparing a long-time prank, being caught and actually getting off the hook without any kind of punishment, pulling the prank flawlessly and with flying colors. That’s the whole package. If something hadn’t worked out, I’d be coaxing you for another try.” 

“We still haven’t pulled it off yet,” Lily stops him. Those words make her remember the potion and she stretches her neck to take a look at the cauldron--she hasn’t been keeping an eye on it for too long. Thankfully, Sirius’ wand’s still stirring the liquid anti-clockwise, and it’s still a few minutes before it needs any other arrangement. “So, the thrill of the forbidden, huh? Is that why my heart won’t go back to normal?” 

They all snicker once more, but it’s James the one who takes one step, entering Lily’s personal space, to reach her hand, taking away from her heart, to help her not focus on her nervousness and relax for real. He even dares to kiss her again on the forehead, carefully, gently--a move that was intended to soothe her, but gets to opposite effect, when she pushes him away from her. 

“Come on, I’m not letting this potion go to waste,” she scowls, standing. 

They all move to grant her a direct road towards the cauldron. After checking it for two brief seconds, the clear color and the silver vapor raising slowly and surrounding them, she looks up at them. 

“Sirius, lower the fire. Remus, hand me the powdered moonstone.” 

At once the two boys get to work, while the other two stand straight, waiting for some other command. As Lily doesn’t have more instructions to give for the time being, they stand around the cauldron, at a safe distance from the flames and from Lily--the woman almost as dangerous as a wild fire. 

There’re no more interruptions and scares; and so, the way they’d planned it to, they spend all afternoon at the Potion’s classroom, following Lily’s commands and instructions word by word. In spite of it, few hours in, the poor girl’s so exhausted that she allows Sirius to take over, while she rests sitting down on a desk, a glass of cold water James asked a house-elf for on her hands. 

Lily prepared the potion so it wouldn’t need the normal time of two hours of brewing, but it could ferment with a twenty-four hour exposure to the open air--and that’s their final task, early in the evening, when the four boys drop a flask-amount of their potion inside each and every one of the cauldrons in the room and also the spare cauldrons, all while snickering under their breaths. When they finally get back to the Common Room, too late to show up for dinner at the Great Hall without causing suspicion, Lily just drops in one of the armchairs her friends had reserved for her, whereas the four Marauders settle for the carpeted floor around the armchair, James reaching out for her hand, thanking her efforts silently. 

“Dear Lord, Lily,” scowls Marlene when she sees her on the armchair, without moving a single finger, her eyes closed. “What have you been up to all day?” 

“Studying,” she says, barely understandable. “Clearly a mistake.” 

“Clearly,” nods Dorcas, eyeing her friend with a worried look, wondering if she should call for Minnie. She even looks around the four Marauders, who promise silently the girl’s alright and doesn’t need medical attention, just rest. 

“With these four?” demands suspiciously Alice. 

“Had to use the Silencing Charm, but yeah, with these four--they wouldn’t leave,” scowls Lily, which isn’t a lie either. 

“Where were you studying? You weren’t at the Library, we looked for you.” 

“And the aim of this interrogation is?” demands James, because Lily can’t come up with an excuse on time. 

“Just curious,” Alice shrugs, nonchalantly, although deep down, a bit worried. They know the Marauders would rather spend their time pranking everyone in the School instead of studying, but if they’ve dragged Lily into it this time, that right there might be going a bit too far. 

“Careful, missus. Curiosity killed the cat,” Sirius reminds her. 

“Wow, that’s so nice to hear,” scowls the woman, sticking out her tongue at him. 

“Why, haven’t you ever heard the end of that line?” asks Frank. “Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back?” 

That freezes Sirius on the spot--he’d learnt the first half of the sentence thanks to his friends, but he never got around learning such Muggle literature to know the ending Frank’s mentioned. In the end, he settles for a roll of eyes, as if that could even in any way the confrontation. 

“Oh, what’s the big deal? You’ll understand in just a couple of days.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Who cares,” replies Frank, giving up on the subject upon receiving the cold look from the four Marauders. “It’ll be in the midst of the exams. I rather preparing for the NEWTs than their struggles.” 

He stands and reaches a hand to help Alice do the same, heading for the dormitories. Dorcas and Marlene do the same after two long seconds, making sure Lily doesn’t want to join them too, but for the looks of it, she’s too exhausted to move. In the end, the five of them end up all alone once more and in spite of having more comfortable seats than the floor, no-one moves from their spot. James only calls out the name of a house-elf--once more, Lily wonders how and when did they make their acquaintance with the Castle house-elfs--to ask for something light to eat so they can all go to sleep. This time Lily doesn’t make any fuss when James insinuates she joins them to their dorms; somehow, after this special afternoon, she’s not keen to get separated from James--or maybe she’s just too tired to deny the warm coaxing from James and the other three. 

In the morning she barely remembers why she’s sleeping in James’ bed and he, on the other hand, is sharing Sirius’ bed. She almost forgets all about their doing the previous afternoon, as she climbs down the stairs and eats breakfast in a couple of minutes, going over the day’s subjects, and then her brain doesn’t have room for anything else than the exams. In the afternoon she finds herself again too exhausted--and depressed--to even want to think about more exams or talk to the Marauders. 

Despite her wishes, however, it all comes back to her when the seventh year students from all Houses attend their Potions exam. Then it hits her: there’s no way any of them, not even Ravenclaw students, pass this exam. 

She freezes on the doorstep when she realizes what in the world did she do, blocking the entrance to the many other students who want to step into the examination classroom. James has to grab her robe and pull her out of the way, seeing she was not able to move a single muscle. 

“Will you please relax?” he demands. “This whole thing’s going to blow if you keep this up!” 

“James, we’re not passing this exam!” she shrieks, keeping her voice down so no-one hears. 

“That was kind of the plan,” he reminds her. 

“Well, I’m having second thoughts about it!” 

“Too late, don’t you think?” grins Sirius, joining the conversation at a bad time. “Come on, it’s not such a big deal. The effect of the potion will have disappeared by tomorrow morning, when we’ll be retaking this exam.” 

“Why did I ever agree to it?” whines Lily, looking over her shoulder at everyone who’ll be affected by her direct doing, that is, all her classmates and this years’ students. 

“Because we agreed we wanted to target everyone we could, not only specific and biased targets,” Remus reminds her, not that she was actually asking for a reminder. “And considering the time frame and your excellent skills at Potions, tampering with the Potions NEWT exams was our best option.” 

“Did I say that?” 

“Actually, you did, yeah,” confirms James, tilting his head at her naivety. “Those were your exact words.” 

She believes him, although she wouldn’t confess so out loud, because it does sound like something she’d say. In the heat of the moment. Now looks like very bad reasoning to her and a very bad idea. She looks over her shoulder once more, at all the students standing by one cauldron, nervous for the practical part of the Potions exam. It’s too late either way. 

“Remember, it’s not like only the Slytherins are going to fail,” whispers Sirius lastly before they all go their separate ways and find a cauldron. Strangely enough, that thought does calm her nerves. A little. She’s still shivering while she seats in front of the last empty cauldron. 

By then, the examiners are already asking for silence and for all the students to put away the books inside the school bags, and the schoolbags against the furthest wall of the classroom. Slowly, as if they plan to make Lily suffer, they start handing out the examination papers. Before getting hers, Lily looks around at James, Sirius, Peter and Remus: they all grin back at her, sometimes even wave at her, as if wishing her luck, or asking her to relax. This is her last chance. 

But she doesn’t manage to say a word and then, all of a sudden, she’s handed her exam. Now it’s too late. When they’re allowed to, she turns the paper around and takes a long good at the potion they’re supposed to prepare. She’d feared something much worse and she stands with the second paper, the list of ingredients, to get what she needs, same as a dozen more students--only problem is, none of them is going to be able to prepare the potion, even if they were given six hours instead of two. 

Sure enough, ten minutes after the beginning of the test, there’s the first incident: the cauldron from a Hufflepuff student in the first row starts melting under the heat of the flames underneath of it. While the examiners, in pure astonishment, surround the Hufflepuff boy and demand what in the world did he do to manage to melt his cauldron, a second cauldron, two seats from the Hufflepuff boy, goes off rails and sparks of all colors start firing off of a Ravenclaw’s girl cauldron, crashing against the roof and exploding in a thousand more sparks like a firework. Before the examiners or anyone else can reach for their wands to put a stop to the blinding sparks, the contents of a third cauldron, this belonging to Dorcas, on the right furthest seat from Lily’s same row, starts producing bubbles, each one bigger than the latter, that raise in the air and spread across the classroom, to everyone’s dazzlement. 

Surprise and fright from the students and some scowls from the examiners raise around the classroom as more and more cauldrons start going off rails, the Marauders look at her with that same look in their eyes and she grins back at them. Since this was supposed to be her one and only prank at Hogwarts, she wanted to make it big, and so she added something to the potion without the boys knowing it, her special treat. The potion would act different depending on the reaction it’d have with certain products and chemicals. Considering each cauldron has been used over dozens of years to make thousands of potions, not even her could predict what would happen throughout the exam, except that all would be harmless pranks to the students and examiners. 

James’ potion has become a mass of purple fume and it’s tainting of said color the robes, skin and hair of everyone the fume gets in contact with. Another cauldron from a Slytherin boy has started mass-producing some kind of liquid till it’s pouring from the cauldron and spreading through the floor, soaking everyone’s shoes. In her case, Lily’s potion’s making a heinous bad smell that’s making her nauseous, to the point that if she stays for too long in here, she’s going to puke for real. 

“What in the world is going on?!” demand exasperated all the examiners, not being able to assist every student in stress or to investigate what’s causing this unprecedented mayhem. Even Professor Slughorn is at a loss for words. 

“I--I--Really can’t tell, sirs--” 

Few rows behind Lily, another cauldron starts emitting something similar to a hum that sounds like a mermaid’s singing. She hears someone casting a protective charm and so she looks above her shoulder, to the Ravenclaw girl two rows from her, making sure no real harm comes to her: but she was just scared by the rain pouring from the clouds above her head. And then her eyes fall down on Severus, at the end of the classroom: whatever his potion had, has soaked him completely from head to toes and he doesn’t look happy about it. She can’t help but snicker, the boy’s hair looks worse than she’s ever seen it, and she has to hide her face behind her hands. 

There’s an explosion very close to her and she turns again, stumbling across an examiner who’d tried to put a stop by Magic to the thick, foamy liquid coming from another cauldron that’s amounting around a Slytherin boy’s shoes and robes; the charm only managed to set the liquid on fire, but the student is unharmed--for now. 

“Okay, that’s it, exam’s cancelled!” says one of the male examiners, trying to be heard over the yells and shrieks of all the students. 

“Everybody out!” commands the second male examiner. 

The third examiner, the only woman, is smarter than the rest, since she raises her wand to her throat and when she speaks, Lily knows her words can be heard all over the Castle. 

“Please, everyone, keep calm!” she roars and somehow, the panic does settle, a bit. “Exam’s cancelled. Please evacuate the classroom in an orderly manner, starting by the rows closest to the door. Come on, quickly, please.” 

She doesn’t need to repeat her words and so, within a couple minutes, all students are already outside the hellish classroom, finally able to breathe in fresh air, casting some charms at each other to dry their clothes, warm up, put out some small fire, or clean their robes, skin and hair from whatever liquid ‘tried to attack them’, as they so valiantly and smartly put it. There’s such a mayhem in the hallway that the Marauders can meet up with Lily and congratulate her without no one noticing. 

“Well, I did want to get the ‘full experience’, as you put it,” she replies, winking at James, a smug expression on her face that deep down, only turns the boy on a bit. 

“You could have told us,” says Remus. “It’s not like we can’t keep a secret.” 

“Oh, and what fun would that be?” asks Lily, crossing her arms. “You should have seen your faces.” 

Her words shock the boys, who stare at her for some long seconds--she’s this close to add to the vainglorious state if the cat had eaten all their tongues, when James finally speaks up. 

“She’s a demon,” he whispers, eyeing her with almost fright in his eyes. “What have we done?” 

“Maybe should have considered this before, Prongs,” Sirius nods, gazing Lily with a look she’s never seen on their faces. “If she now gets a hand for it, she’ll get us out of a job in less than a week.” 

Lily scoffs once, throwing her head back. “A week? Please. I wouldn’t give you two days.” 

“Somehow, I think that’s not stretching it,” confesses Sirius. 

It doesn’t come as a surprise to any of the Marauders that all the mayhem would end up attracting the attention of some members of the Staff; so when they hear Prof. Minnie’s and the Headmaster’s voices approaching, while demanding answers for the commotion and all the students outside the Potions classroom when they were supposed to be taking an important exam, they have to pardon their tardiness by taking in consideration the long walk from their offices. 

“In the name of--May I know what’s going on?” demands Minerva when she finally comes to a stop in front of the three examiners. 

“Exam’s been cancelled.” 

“D’you think that answers anything?” presses the Deputy Headmistress. 

The students, all havoc forgotten, have to hide a snicker upon the man’s face; he’s feeling first-hand what it’s like being under Prof. Minerva’s severe stare and stern words of disapproval. Although it feels wrong, on the other hand it also feels great to let an adult suffer such treatment. 

“There was a problem in the classroom. All the cauldrons malfunctioned, somehow,” explains the female examiner, giving the best answer she can, because nothing can really explain what happened back in there. 

Out of curiosity, or maybe in order to check the examiner’s words, Albus dares to open the Potions classroom’s door just an inch and peer inside. Lily and the Marauders have to hide a snicker when they see lights going off in all different colors--first red, then purple, then cyan, then an electric blue--and thousand sounds all mixed up, like a wheezing sound, and a long, high-pitched whistle, or something melting. . . Impossible to list everything that’s going on in there. 

Someone steps closer to their group from behind--their Gryffindor peers, not surprisingly. Although they look tired because of the exams’ pressure and the Marauders’ misdemeanors, they actually look quite pleased and impressed by today’s pranks, reason why they understand who planned it. 

“Keep it cool,” they say, as some students are already glancing towards them. They nod in appreciation to the warning and do their best to keep straight faces. 

In the end, the Headmaster shuts the door without even trying to step into the classroom. Furthermore, he even locks the door with a verbal spell, as not to let anyone in, which only constitutes in an even higher praise to Evans. 

“What do you reckon, Albus?” asks Minerva, as if him closing the door weren’t an answer. 

He hasn’t lost his temper, however. “I think it’d be a waste of time, energy and resources trying to put a stop to whatever happened in there,” he says slowly, calmly. “It’s best if we postpone the exam to a more suitable day.” 

The official announcement is met by opposite reactions: some students are relieved to hear they’ll be having more time to prepare for the Potions exam--if they knew who they should be thanking, they’d never recover--but on the other hand, half of the students scowl that they wanted to get over it once and for all. Minerva, as well as the examiners, belong to the group outraged by the situation. 

“And how’s that possible, Horace?” she demands, turning towards the Potions master. The man raises his arms, still not quite recovered from the fright. 

“I honestly don’t know, Minerva. This--I’ve never seen anything like this in my entire life. They were only supposed to prepare a Serum Truth, it’s not normal,” the professor stutters, only contributing to make matters worse. 

Because those words raise every alarm in Minerva’s nervous system, her voice even colder than before. 

“You think the cauldrons have been tampered, then?” she demands. 

Professor Slughorn doesn’t answer right away; the thought probably didn’t cross his mind till the Deputy Headmistress mentioned it out loud. But when he does consider it, he nods a couple times. 

“Sounds like a reasonable explanation,” he agrees. 

As it was bound to happen sooner or later, Minerva, Albus and every other student turns towards the Marauders, resulting in creating a wide, empty circle around the five of them--which includes Lily only because she’s with them physically, not because she’s a suspect, she notices the difference. She even considers taking a few steps back, but doesn’t think it’d help. 

“Never, never, in my life, could have figured you able to tamper with a NEWT exam,” scowls Minnie, her voice almost a whisper. 

“Mr. Potter, Mr. Lupin, Mr. Black, Mr. Pettigrew,” Albus lists slowly, looking intently at every one of them in turn. “D’you have anything to say about what happened in there?” he demands, although his voice, somehow, doesn’t sound that much stern or severe. 

“All due respects, Headmaster,” interjects someone else, probably the last person they’d ever expect to speak up in a situation like this. Everyone steps away from Severus, who finds himself all alone in a circle amongst the students, but keeps talking nevertheless, “I don’t think Mr. Potter, Mr. Pettigrew or Mr. Lupin could ever have pulled off something like that, not even in their dreams. I could believe maybe Mr. Black could have the skills to do so, but it’s hard to imagine.” 

The four boys mentioned know those words were meant to insult them, but they’re forced to hide a smile, because that right there, is the most honest truth and the excuse they themselves were about to utter to save their asses. Coming from a Slytherin, however, there’s no way they can dismiss the statement and punish them either way for that mayhem. 

“Is that true, Prof. Slughorn?” asks the Headmaster, although everyone in the hallway knows the answer already. 

And the Professor doesn’t blow it all off for them either--they must thank him some day for trusting Evans so much, or maybe for being so oblivious, that he doesn’t mention the five of them being at the Potions classroom only two days ago, and the more than feeble excuse Lily came up with at the time. 

“Y--Yeah, I think that’s accurate,” he confirms with some difficulty. “Whoever did that back there, they meant to do such havoc in purpose. That requires even more refined skills.” 

Severus squints at Lily, knowing from the start who was it that caused all the commotion, but doesn’t say a word--maybe he doesn’t dare after he’s already accused the Marauders, or maybe, deep down, doesn’t want to cause Lily any trouble, a reason much less plausible. 

Minerva places her hands on her waist, her way of showing she’s about to lose it. 

“Anyone care to speak up?” she demands, looking around the students, but everyone misses her eye on purpose and she sighs. “I warn you all that we will get to the bottom of this matter, I promise. An enquiry will be open this very morning. For now, everyone will please go to their Common Room till the beginning of your next exam and the Potions exam will be rescheduled for sometime later this week. Off you go, come on!” 

Not wanting to get on Minerva’s angry side, every last student drops their head and start filing out of the hallway, climbing up the stairs away from the dungeons, not daring to even mention their schoolbags are still inside the Potions classroom--to get them the teachers will have to solve the pyrotechnics first. On their way up, none of the Marauders can erase the grins on their lips, the bigger one of them all, that on Lily’s smug face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do realize not all four Marauders took the Potions NEWT Exam, but I'm overlooking that error for the convenience of this story.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lily's parents have died because of the Wizarding World and the Marauders join her to the ceremony at their place. Petunia and Lily bashing.

She’s standing in the middle of the room, feet away from any furniture, not daring to move or to touch anything. Downstairs she hears the fainted rumble of steps and quiet conversations from the ceremony she’s left unnoticed. Her mother wouldn’t approve of her flee when there are guests to attend to at one’s own house, and she agrees with that, partially. Her mother isn’t here with her anymore to tell her off, because of her.

She’s even left James by himself, when he specifically asked her not to leave him alone in an all-muggle environment, but he’ll live. She knows he's asked her that only partially so she herself wouldn’t be left alone at any moment during the ceremony. 

But she couldn’t stand a minute longer down there, among old friends and family, everyone reminiscing her parents and their lives--way too short lives--with drinks and happy memories. She couldn’t, knowing she’s to blame they’re dead. 

Because she is to blame, and no-one, though they’ve tried over and over and over again, can convince her otherwise. James, Sirius, Marlene, Remus, Mary, Peter, Albus, Prof. McGonagall... Them and many others have tried to reason with her, help her, mourn with her, telling Lily she didn’t have to feel guilty because of her parents’ death. But she is. She can’t accept arguments like “Things like these happen in a War, we just have to take it the best way we can”, or “You didn’t cast the spell that killed them”, or “They don’t hold a grudge against you”. It is her fault. 

If there wasn’t a war, or if she hadn’t stood up for her ethics and basic principles, if she wasn’t a member of the Order of the Phoenix, if she hadn’t seen Death in front of her eyes too many times before, if she didn’t want to protect and save as many muggle friends and family as she could, if every cell of her body didn’t feel against Voldemort’s ideals. . . 

She has to cut the list short, or she knows she could spend the rest of the afternoon, or even her whole miserable life, listing all the reasons why she’s to blame for what’s happened. There are a lot of conditionals, small stupid things that could have change the world, she knows that. She knows she shouldn’t think of them, because life and everything that happens at one person is nothing but the series of infinite of decisions, thoughts, perceptions and reactions he or she does, take or make. But she also knows that if it weren’t for all those reasons and linkings, those three Death Eaters wouldn’t have shown up in front of their house, trying once again to hoax, or coax, or coerce her into joining the Dark Lord’s forces only because the Dark Lord estimates her usefulness and very advances skills in Potions. And if they hadn't, her parents wouldn’t have tried to defend her--as if they could’ve done for her what they did at pre-school, about the Samantha Reynolds issue--and probably would still be alive right now. They certainly wouldn’t be having a funeral for them and the ceremony at their own house. 

With stumbling feet she advances the few steps that separated her from the bed, and just lets herself fall to the comfortable mattress, until her head finds the pillow. The scent is still that of her mother and through the tears she can do nothing but remember those many nights she and Tuney stayed at their parents’ bed, or how many nights her mother embraced her tightly after a nightmare, promising they’d go away. How naïve, how young, how unprepared towards the real world, and the War they’re living in, she was. And yet, she so wishes she could go back to that era, a happier time, where everything was solved by a few wise and affectionate words from her parents. When she still got along with her only sister, when Severus was her best friend; before learning about her magic, before going to Hogwarts. If only she’d been another muggle and not the rare exception in the family. She would have no idea of the War going on right now, she’d--only--live in a state of fear because of the mass murders and disappearances, but she wouldn’t have to take an active part of the War, nor she would have endangered her parents’ lives. 

With her head hidden against the pillow, muffling the racket downstairs, and she’s sobbing her eyes out as her only mean to cope with her broken heart, so she doesn’t hear the creaking of the stairs, the steps approaching, nor the door opening, and doesn’t realize someone’s in the room till she speaks, making her jump both for the surprise and because of her cold, dead, full of hatred voice. 

“I don’t believe you have the guts to step into this room.”

Lily stand right up, but stays by the bed, not trusting her feet; she can barely see her sister through the tears that at spilling from her eyes and have soaked the pillow she was leaning in, as well as wrecked her make-up and dress. 

“Tuney, please, Iet’s not get into a fight now.” Her voice breaks at the end of the sentence, not having spoken for hours, remorse eating her alive. 

“How DARE you come back here? Thought I told you I didn’t want to see you again near this house. You caused Mom and Dad’s death!” 

“Tuney, don’t say that, I beg you.” 

“I should have asked Vernon to kick out! Or call the police for trespassing!” Even if it would have been Petunia’s right to do either of those things, or both of them, they know perfectly well why she didn’t: Lily has come with four of her wizard friends, all of them entirely capable of making Petunia’s life a living hell. 

“And you call yourself a good person? All your magic has brought to this family is sorrow from the first day you could do your freak tricks, and now you’ve brought the death of our parents, with your bloody magic!”

“Come on, Tuney, please, don’t say that. I’m feeling enough remorse as it is.”

“As you should feel! You should be feeling much, much worse than what you’re feeling right now! If I was the culpable of my parents’ death, I wouldn’t show my face at their funeral, or at their old house! Why couldn’t you stay away with your own lot and leave the murders away from home?” 

“Magic isn’t--” 

“The least you could do is bring them back! Can you?” she asks as an afterthought, lowering her voice. In her sister’s eyes, Lily sees how she could conceive the idea of cutting her some slack only if she could bring her parents back; if things were like they used to be. But both possibilities are rather impossible, sighs Lily. 

“Believe me when I say there’s nothing I want more,” she whispers, hands tight in fists before her heart, almost ready to take it off her chest. It'd surely be much less painful than what she is feeling right now. “But I can’t, Tuney, I can’t. Not even magic can bring back the dead.” 

“What’s so good about you lot, then?” spats Tuney, as Lily feels she’s losing all her strength, her remaining threads of strength, and all she hopes for is lying down and never waking up again. 

“I honestly don’t know. But we’re not evil either, Tuney.” 

“The hell you’re not! Your--your lot---is the worse thing that’s ever happened.” 

Suddenly they’re not alone anymore, but four more people have appeared in the room out of nowhere. Sirius and James have their backs to Lily, ranks closed in front of her, standing on a no-man’s land between the idea of confronting Petunia or defending Lily; and judging by their faces, the first one is winning. Behind her, Lily can feel two more presences--Peter and Remus. One of them reaches his hand to warmly hold her arm. She doesn’t turn her head to know who it was; she doesn’t need to. And otherwise, she’s too frightened by the two Marauders in front of her, who haven’t said a word or haven’t moved an inch, but are close to reaching for their wands. 

In return, Lily places a hand on both their shoulders, trying to remember them to keep it cool. They're in a Muggle environment, after all. And James himself asked her to keep an eye on him in case he messed something up; well, he's getting close to that bungle now.

“Guys, please, it’s okay--” 

“ _Like hell it’s OK!_ ” roars James, his whole body trembling with anger, his face red. Sirius isn’t doing much better on his attempts not to burn this house down in a speak of uncontrolled, wandless magic. “You, apologize to your sister,” he orders. “ _Now._ ” 

“Why should I?” replies Petunia, without truly seeing the danger in front of her. She seems even angrier than before; the shock of the sudden appearances, four people as to protect Lily in such a parental way, has worn off easily, and sends yet another hatred look towards her sister. “I mean every word that I said.” 

She looks directly and her sister, over James’ and Sirius’ shoulders, letting her words really sink in. 

“Stop it, you both,” orders Lily, grabbing James and Sirius by their arms. “I don’t want you to hurt her in any way, is that clear?” 

Her words do the trick, as none of the Marauders has never been able to deny her anything in the world when she asked them with that plea on her voice--a leverage she's used more than often, to such gratifying results. She gets the same now: both Prongs and Padfoot, after sharing a brief look between them, take the tiniest step away from each other, allowing Petunia and Lily to see each other again.

Petunia speaks before Lily can even think or remember what she wanted to say to placate all the people present in the room. 

“Well, dear sister, you may have your protector lapdogs in your world, but they certainly won’t do anything here. So I’m only saying this once: I’m selling this house. Actually, I’ve got some offers already. I’ll divide the benefits equally, not that you deserve it, but I’m still a good sister, unlike you. I’m selling this house and I’m moving in with Vernon. We’ll get married the 13th of June. I’m telling you this now because you won’t receive an invitation and I don’t want you to be nowhere near my wedding to bring in your destruction with you. As a matter of fact, I don’t want you anywhere near me, this house, or my new house ever again. Stay away from my life. Is that clear?” 

Both Petunia and Lily see James and Sirius stiffen at these words, all their muscles tensed, ready to grab their wands, which only pleases the first and worries the second sister a bit more. So Lily speaks before any of them can. 

“I don’t get a say in the matter?” Her voice barely stronger than a whisper. “It's my childhood’s house, too.” 

“And you’re still a child. What you think doesn’t make a difference, not legally, not to me.” 

“I’m adult in the Wizarding World, Tuney.”

“Like I said, doesn’t make a goddam difference. You don’t step again on this house, nor dare to appear on the doorstep of my new place. You understand me? Not if you still have this aberration in you.” 

“Aberration?!” repeats James, raising his voice to a scowl. And that’s too much for him, as he gets to his sleeve. Even Tuney takes a step backwards upon seeing his wand and the reaction of everybody in the room: the other boys have taken, too, a few steps away from James, offering him space to act; and Lily’s now in front of her boyfriend, blocking his view of Petunia, grabbing his right wrist with one hand and his head with the other.

“Please hold on!!” begs she in a shriek. If James does something out of the blue as bad-tempered as he is, there will be another massacre inside this house. And she'll be directly responsible for that one, too. 

Only Lily’s words seem to placate, at some level, James’ anger. As soon as she’s sure he won’t attack Petunia in the next few seconds, she turns on her heels to face her sister again. At the same time, she hears more steps and figures the other Marauders are closing around her again, as if to encourage her. Which she appreciates. 

“Look, Tuney, I’m truly, terribly sorry--”

“Beg for forgiveness if you want, it won’t change a thing.” 

“I KNOW I can’t change what happened!! And I’m feeling sick for that, but I’ll always have magic, same as I can't change the fact that our parents are dead and will continue to be so for ever, OK?! Can’t we just accept that and get on track? I don’t want to lose you too.” 

The room is silent for about two minutes. And that’s probably a good sign, as James, Sirius, Remus nor Peter lose their temper and attack Petunia. But after her next words, Lily isn’t sure she can stop them--or if she wants to. 

“It’s a bit too late for that, sis,” she whispers, as she turns away towards the door. Lily grabs again James’ good wrist, having seen from the corner of her eyes he was starting to raise her wand. But she couldn’t stop everyone in the room. 

“Hey,” yells Sirius. That single monosyllable shows so much authority, so much superiority, that even Petunia detects the pure-blood status in his voice and stops. Doesn’t bother to turn all the way around, however, just looks at Sirius above her shoulder. “Cut with the jealousy crap, will you? It doesn’t suit you, and I assure you, _that_ will bring on you all the sadness you can imagine, and much, much more.” 

Strange as it is, Petunia lets out a sarcastic and crooked smile. 

“Jealous, am I, now?” she whispers. But doesn’t engage a fight that obviously the Marauders were expecting: she just leaves the room without another word, not looking at her sister again. 

When her steps can’t be heard anymore, everyone in the room lets out an enormous sigh, and James even puts away his wand--the most significant sign that the confrontation is indeed over. That finally makes it too much for Lily, who closes her eyes and leans into her boyfriend, who receives her in his welcoming, affectionate chest. He rubs her arms, warming them, as he kisses her on the forehead and whispers sympathetic and loving words at her ear, only for her to hear, trying to cool her down. Exactly how they were a few weeks ago, when Lily’s parents were murdered, and James came to take Lily. 

“Well, I’m no expert in Muggle affairs, but I think that went fairly well,” sighs Sirius all of a sudden. And it’s just that much unexpected, that out of place, that Lily burst in a quiet laughter. The first time she actually laughs since her parents died, which at the same time, makes James relax a little bit more. 

“Pads, you have absolutely no sense of timing,” replies Peter. 

“Probably not,” agrees the mentioned. 

“Well, anyway, we’re finished here,” says James, helping Lily to stand up. “Let's get you home." 

Lily looks up at his husband, processing his caring words and she smiles affectionately after a couple of long seconds. James leans in to give her a slight kiss on the nose, whispering in her ear: "Just close your eyes and you'll be right home." Lily embraces his husband, getting ready to leave her childhood house, and all of the memories adhered to it, for the last time and forever. That thought makes her heart tremble as she holds onto James, who takes it as a sign to leave as soon as possible, and gestures towards the other Marauders. 

"No. Hold on." 

Everyone freezes, almost stopping breathing mid-air, as they slowly turn and look at the one who spoke, the same Lily, who is now stepping away from James' tight and reassuring embrace, shaking her head right and left, as if something _else_ had bothered her all of a sudden. 

"I can't leave like this." 

"What's the problem?" asks James at once, worry tainting his voice. 

"The guests downstairs. . ." 

"Come on, Lily, you don't have to do this," cries Peter. 

"You don't owe anything to any of those guests," corroborates Remus, signaling downstairs with his finger. 

"And that would mean to see your sister again," remembers Sirius, stern voice. "I'm not sure how can you be up to that. Hell, not even I am up to that, and I'm used to being in the receiving end of hatred." 

"It's not for Petunia," replies Lily, still shaking her head, though her voice is weaker now as she has been reminder of her sister. "I know I don't owe her anything. My mother would never forgive me for leaving a party like this, held in my own house, unnoticed, without warning anyone and, worse of all, without saying goodbye to anyone. I just can't forget all of that. Not because a little feud with my sister." 

"Little?" scoffs Remus. "You nearly poked her eyes, and Prongs and Padfoot here are still up to it. I wouldn't let them near your sister again, not if you honestly said you meant no harm to her." 

"OK, you can wait for me outside. It won't take more than five minutes, I assure you." 

Not a single person convinced, all the Marauders are still standing in the room ten seconds later, more time than it takes for anyone to Apparate roughly thirty-two feet. Lily has to suppress a smile as she sees, right in front of her, in the flesh, the true meaning of having a sibling. Wish she could have seen it before getting to Hogwarts, or before her sixth or seventh year at the school--depending on which Marauder she's referring to. She turns to look at James in the eye, making sure they're not bailing her, since they've stated plenty of times tonight they were not made for this kind of Muggle stuff. But the look on James' eye is so pure and sincere, much like all those times she looked at him--and he at her--during their sixth and seventh year, just before they started dating, that she just can't not trust him anymore. James understands just too well what Lily's feeling right now; because, despite having been told hundreds of times that her parents dead wasn't her fault, she will feel like it was either way, and she will try to lessen the bargain from her shoulders the best way she can. And that means, she can't leave any tail ends hanging. Including every behavior lesson her parents ever taught Lily; if she didn't comply now, she'd be betraying even more her parents. 

Understanding all of this, and letting Lily know he knows in just a simple nod of his head, Lily's second smile of the evening appears on her face, lightening the room and the mood on the room. 

"You ready?" asks James, knowing what he's truly asking, holding her wrist. 

"Yeah. Wait, no." Her cry stops all the Marauders again, when they were already reaching for the door. But now it doesn't seem to be any emergency, at least nothing they'd call an emergency. Lily is looking up and down at herself, checking out her dress and looks after the crying and the fight. "Am I hideous, aren't I? I probably shouldn't let anyone see me again." 

"Not at all," replies James at once, getting back his hold on her wrist. "You look gorgeous. Of course--" 

"Cut the sugarcoating, Prongs," begs Sirius. "I want to leave this place."

"Am I even presentable?" Lily demands, turning towards the Marauders who she knows won't lie to her, or at least not that easily, not even tonight, which is what she's asking for. 

"You're fine, Lily, really," assures Remus. And his calm and reassuring voice it's exactly what Lily was looking for, rather than the stupid and blind point of view of her husband, so she sighs in relief as she straightens her dress and make up, holds James' arm again and takes a deep, long breath before leaving the room and going directly downstairs, avoiding on purpose the outraged look on Petunia, at the other corner of the end, who undoubtedly had expected all of them to leave the house by the same mean as the four Marauders had appeared to their parents' room earlier. But she doesn't say a word as she hears Lily saying goodbye and expressing her gratitude for their presence, comfort and words and she realizes Lily isn't staying that much longer. Not that she'd ever admit it, but she also keeps her mouth shut because of the fierce look Sirius sends at her direction even from the top of the stairs, much more frightening than anything Lily could have threatened her with. 

Complying her promise, a little more than five minutes after leaving the bedroom, the five of them are leaving the house, this time definitely, and step with deep sighs into the quite, cold, beautiful, silent, muggle street. As Lily closes the door, starts walking down the road and suddenly stops in the middle of the avenue, probably reminiscing some or other memory about her childhood, the rest surround her again, silently, but reminding her, by their presences, that as usual, they're there for her. In the end that's what a Marauder means to all of them. 

James goes a step further and just puts his arm around her waist, allowing her to lean in his chest and close her eyes a few seconds, breathing in and out peacefully now that everything's over. At least, the little Evans feud is, of course. No-one can forget there's a war going on out there. And luckily enough, no-one has to force himself to remind that to Lily and pointing out the dangers of staying outdoors in quite a public and known place, where just a few weeks ago Death Eaters were present. 

“Let’s go home,” accepts Lily, taking his husband hand and letting him, for once, take the lead on the Apparation. Knowing that from now on, her one and only home, maybe besides Hogwarts, will be where James, as well as the other Marauders, are. Despite everything that’s happened, it doesn’t sound quite so bad. After all, that's what she was after when she accepted James's date.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the midst of the War, soon after Lily's parent's death, families have to stick together through Christmas holidays.

A loud “Pop!” is the only indicator of her sudden appearance at the street. She reaches a hand to the closest lamppost, trying to keep her two feet on the ground and forcing her stomach not to throw up. She hasn’t been eating that much lately, she’s incredibly nervous, almost on the edge of hysterical, and she’s never liked Apparition. The other ways of transportation, flying, floo powder or the Kinght Bus aren’t any better, so she had little to no choice. Besides, she was running late. From the moment she decided she’d make an appearance--probably not that much desired, but indeed appropriate--she’s only had one hour get ready for dinner, a bit of a stretch. 

She keeps a tight hand over her mouth, taking deep breaths, trying with all her might not to throw up. It wouldn’t do any good for her nerves or her dress. After two minutes or so, she thinks she’s alright, so she looks up and down the street to offer her organism some distraction from the knot she feels in her stomach. 

Only now she realizes she’s landed under a lit lamppost, in plain sight, her wand forgotten inside her purse, for all the street to see her. If there had been any opponent, she’d be long dead. Good God, the sense of survival she’s lost, she reprimands herself as she steps away from the lamppost and stands a few moments in the darkness. 

She’s got an important meeting in less than two minutes, however, she doesn’t want any surprises. There’s no-one on the streets and everything’s silent, apart from soft and cheerful music coming from some mansion or another. She believes the snowy streets would let her know in advance if someone was to be walking up and down the street. She’s taken, despite everything, the usual precautions with Apparition, landing into three different locations before getting to her final destination, so she knows for sure no-one’s followed her to this spot. And indeed, if there’d been someone waiting for her, he’d attacked her for now. She guesses she’ll get to the mansion unharmed. 

Wand at the ready now, she starts walking hurriedly, glancing from time to time over her shoulder, taking a non-direct way, avoiding, just in case, the beams of light from the lampposts. She gets to the front door a couple minutes late, she knows that, but at least, she’s made it unscathed. Before endangering herself any further she rings the bell as soon as she’s close enough. 

“Coming!” she hears at once, much too early for her, as she doesn’t have time to catch her breath when her heart skips a beat at the voice she’s easily recognized. 

James opens the door a few seconds later, beaming, he himself catching his breath too, wearing nothing but a pair of formal, black pants and a white shirt. His eyes and his whole composure relax upon seeing Lily, and she realizes James wasn’t too sure if she was coming to the dinner. 

“Lily! You’re here!” 

She tries to act as herself. It’s been long since she’s normally interacted with James, but their relationship will never change, so it’s easy and natural to get on track. 

“You asked me to come and here I am. You weren’t worried I wouldn’t show up, were you?” 

“Of course not,” he scoffs, shrugging--his way at attempting to hide something that truly mattered to and preoccupied him. 

“I never break a promise,” dares Lily, locking eyes with her boyfriend. If he can still call it a relationship after she pushed him away. 

“I know that.” 

“Oi, Evans!” shouts Sirius, a bit overenthusiastic, from somewhere inside the house. He shows up behind James, wearing the exact same outfit as his brother--only, Sirius hair actually looks as if he’d brushed it--and his usually broad smile widens yet a bit more when he sees Lily standing in their front door. 

“Alright there, Evans?” he asks as his usual greeting, mocking and warm at the same time. 

“Yes, of course--” she starts to say, but Sirius doesn’t allow her to finish her sentence, preventing her from getting too good at lying. 

“Welcome home. Prongs, are you going to let your girlfriend freeze to death?” he adds with stern. 

“No, sorry. Please, come in,” the other boy apologizes immediately, stepping away from the door as to let Lily come inside. At once she feels and thanks the warmth of the house, even before Sirius has closed the door, and she unbuttons her coat, as James, from behind her, takes it and hangs it in a cupboard near the entrance. 

“So happy you could come, Evans,” confesses Sirius as he kisses her in the cheeks. 

“Well, you didn’t make it very easy for me to decline the invitation,” she jokes. 

Though internally, the remark isn’t that funny as she aimed at. James almost had to force her to say yes--and it was the first time she actually managed to look up after her parents’ death. She’s has a hard time, pushing everyone away and secluding herself in a too unhealthy, worrying way, keeping a distance from her friends and even boyfriend. She’s barely left the Head Boy and Girl dormitories to assist some of her classes, although her sleeping pattern is chaotic--James should know, sharing said dormitories, given his desperate efforts to make her go out and socialize. Even Prof. Minnie has tried to talk to her, to no results. Her grades dropped. She hasn’t been that much in the Great Hall for meals, either. She’s lost weight, though neither of them dare to remark that. It’s been so hard for her that she thought she’d managed to lose as well her boyfriend and friends--till the day they told her they’d been taking perfect and detailed notes on every of the classes she’d missed, because she was still on time to get to study and pass the exams. The same day when James invited her to this party, further proving he’s been, after all, by her side every day she went through her personal hell. 

“Hey, get your paws off of my girlfriend,” demands James, as Sirius was still embracing Lily in a totally pleasant way for the two of them. 

“My apologies,” says Sirius, giving Lily a brief last kiss before stepping away from her. 

“Well, you’ve already seen the house, so let’s go, come to say hello to my parents,” says James with a reassuring grin. 

He grabs Lily’s hand encouragingly and she takes a very deep breath, looking at James in the eye, who smiles fondly at her and winks with his stupid though lovely smirk. ‘You’ve defeated Death Eaters and faced Voldemort himself. This shouldn’t be that hard’, thinks Lily with a sigh as she motions for James to lead the way. 

James then, not having let go of her wrist, drags Lily to the right from the entrance hall, to the kitchen, she reckons. They step into a large dining room, high roof, beautifully decorated, though the furniture and paintings and everything else in the house makes Lily feel like they’re in another century--the nineteenth, to be precise. She’s had that feeling ever since she’s stepped in the house and, quite frankly, ever since she first met the Potters. 

But that’s not what she first realizes in the dining room. The enormous table, though there aren’t yet dishes or wineglasses set, is big enough to fit at least twenty-five guests. But besides her, in the household there’s only family members. 

“Mmm... James? Am I too early?” she asks, uncertain. He didn’t warn her enough concerning the long guest list. 

“Not at all, you’re right on time.” 

“Then--?” 

“I asked you to come before all the guests arrived, so you wouldn’t be overwhelmed with everything,” he explains, his voice low and soft. Translation is easy to figure out: so she wouldn’t chicken out from such a social event after being secluded for so long. Probably a good call. 

“How considerate,” she jokes, though she does thank him for that. She is indeed frightened just by looking at the table and guessing the amount of guests that may come to this dinner. All of them, of course, wizards and witches of high social statuses whom she’ll find nothing to talk about with. 

“Believe it or not, I’m a real gentleman,” says James. 

“To be honest, that’s hard to believe,” mocks Lily. 

“Yeah, you haven’t really made proud the Potter heritage in your years of living, Prongs,” agrees Sirius. “You’ve certainly pissed off your parents more than any other previous generation, you’ve excelled at screwing things up with your girlfriend, you must be the Potter who’s served more detentions at Hogwarts--” 

“Only because you dared me to,” replies James, wanting to get the facts straight, at least. 

“Sirius has a point, though,” replies Lily, a small smile on her lips. “I’m sure your detentions don’t even equal all the Potter’s detentions at Hogwarts, going back to the year the Potters started attending the School.” 

“Very funny, you two.” 

“She makes a compelling argument,” nods Sirius. 

“If I remember correctly, you pulled off a few records on your own as well,” scowls James, rolling his eyes at his brother. 

“That might be. But we weren’t talking about me.” 

“And we didn’t invite Lily over to talk about our pranks altogether,” replies James, returning to the current time and place. “Come.” 

He takes her hand again and leads her towards the kitchen, brightly lit, where an elderly couple is working on dinner alongside a house elf. Sirius steps in, to show his presence and silent encouragement, but James stands at the doorway, embracing Lily by her shoulders. 

“Mom, Dad, tonight’s first guest is already here: my dearest, brightest, funniest, cleverest, wonderful--” 

“Knock it off, Prongs,” begs Sirius with a low groan, right when Lily was about to interject James--couldn’t have stood his talk for much longer either. 

“My girlfriend Lily Evans,” finishes James at last, barely holding in a burst of laughter. 

They weren’t expecting her so soon, that’s the only reason why Euphemia and Fleamont drop whatever they were doing and welcome Lily with warm smiles and genuine affectionate words that hurt Lily more than she could confess. 

“Hello, Lily, darling. Welcome home,” greets Fleamont. 

“Oh, we’re so glad you could come, my dear,” says Euphemia. 

“Couldn’t refuse such a warm invitation,” she jokes, leaning in to hug her. 

“Careful there,” laughs the older woman, showing a pair of hands greasy and holding a long, kitchen knife. She lays it on the countertop and washes her hands on the sink to properly hug Lily, patting her back encouragingly. 

By her side, Fleamont cannot hold for that long and, keeping his equally oily hands away from Lily and her dress, kisses her on the cheeks, stepping away afterwards just in case to avoid any unfortunate accident. 

“My, you look wonderful, m’dear,” praises Euphemia, taking a good look at Lily’s dress, a black satin, long-sleeved, down to the knees one, with a red belt on the waist. Euphemia knows better than to mention Lily looks a bit too skinny on it--at least tonight she’ll be getting a proper meal. 

“Thank you. You two don’t look so bad yourselves,” Lily corresponds. 

Her remark prompts a roar of laughter from the couple, whose casual outfits are being covered by kitchen aprons for the time being. 

“Please, we haven’t had time to change just yet,” replies Euphemia. “I’m a bit embarrassed you caught me wearing this old cloth.” 

“Don’t say that,” replies Sirius, a bit outraged. Knowing him and the rest of the family, Lily knows what Euphemia’s just called a ‘cloth’ she might consider it proper for an everyday dress. 

Fleamont thinks so as well, as he leans down from behind his wife to whisper one sentence to her ear before kissing the side of her neck. 

“It looks beautiful on you, dear,” he promises. 

Euphemia’s reaction’s very similar to the rest of the people present, though for radical different reasons: Lily, James and Sirius blush upon such an open display of affection, while the older woman blushes for the comment. She caresses her husband’s cheek as she speaks. 

“Okay, we better get back to cooking before something burns,” she suggests, returning to the fires and the many casseroles half-ready for dinner. Thankfully, the house-elf hasn’t stopped working while the family talked, so there was nothing to worry about in the first place. 

“Evening, Stiffy,” greets Lily. The manners her parents taught her force her to address proper words to anyone in a household she’s been invited to, even if she didn’t know the Potters consider the house-elf one more member of the family. 

The house-elf forgets for one second the cooking part, in order to face Lily and bow at her, a gesture Lily can’t bring herself to refuse today. 

“Good evening, Miss Evans.”

That’s as good as it gets with the house-elf, she reckons, a small smile in her lips. James handing her a hand in a not so subtle attempt to get her out of the kitchen and their parents, probably saving her from a conversation she wasn’t ready just yet to face. But she was forgetting she’s in the midst of a family picture altogether.   
“Where do you think you two are going?” demands Euphemia coldly before they step out of the kitchen. 

The three of them, even if she addressed only her sons, turn around to see she spoke without even raising her eyes from the casserole she’s working with at the moment. 

“Just showing Lily out,” explains Sirius, pointing the living room with his head. 

“As I recall, it’s not the first time she’s been here, I’m sure the girl can find her way by herself,” replies Euphemia. “Will you help Stiffy set the table?” 

James growls under his breath, showing the seven-year-old side of himself that he truly is and Lily was kind of missing by now. 

“Mom, come on, we already have a house-elf for that, why do we need to--” 

“Have you turned blind? We need Stiffy here with us cooking,” replies Fleamont. The house-elf doesn’t participate in the conversation about herself in any way, knowing it’s best to wait until she receives a direct order, but keeps on working. 

“If you didn’t fuss so much you’d already be finished, James,” reminds Euphemia, half-mockingly. 

“Exactly, Prongs, a little exercise will be good for you,” adds Sirius, kicking James in the shoulder. 

Sirius’s good humor vanish quickly as Euphemia speaks up again. 

“I meant you too, dear, Sirius. Off you go.”

“But--Please--” stutters Sirius, completely taken aback, as it’s James’s turn to mock his sibling for the chores he’s been imposed to. 

“Now, you won’t start a fight in front of a guest and a lady, will you?” demands Fleamont. The man turns around to face his sons, a funny look on his eyes, his tone close to a reproach, without being stern either--they cannot get mad at their sons for their lives. 

Even so, it works. The gentlemanliness in this household is that of an old-fashioned era and given, precisely, the female company they have, Sirius and James simply cannot keep on arguing, even if their whole relationship, since the moment they met, is based on harmless bickering amongst the three. 

“Alright,” scowl James and Sirius in the end. 

“And don’t you dare use any magic,” warns Euphemia before her sons take out their wands and make things way easy. “If you break not even a single dish--” 

“No, we won’t, Mom,” promise the two Potter kids, tiredly, which leads Lily to believe there’s an interesting story behind that mild reprimand and grudgy promise. 

Two sets of dishes have formed in front of them in the countertop and they each grab one of them and head for the dining room, walking cautiously. Lily steps back to avoid any accidents and at once turns towards the Potters. 

“What can I do?” she asks. 

Unfortunately, the only response she gets are non-condescending scoffs and chuckles, proving what she first feared--gentlemanliness extends to the point that they’re not about to let her do anything at all. 

“Lily, you didn’t come here to work,” replies Euphemia courteously, accompanying her words with a warm smile, motioning her for the kitchen’s exit, “only to enjoy a pleasant and warm meal with us.” 

“But I want to help,” she insists, stepping forwards. 

It’s Fleamont, the Potter member closer to her, who stops her by grabbing her wrists, careful not to get her dress dirty by whatever he was cooking at the time. 

“Darling, you don’t have to help. We’ll manage on our own.” 

And then come into the scene the two people who’ll make it even more impossible for her to move a single finger all night long--without understanding that’s exactly what she needs to do for now if she’s ever going to make it through dinner. 

“What’s going on here?” demands Sirius, back to fetch the cutlery. 

“You fighting?” asks James, his voice a little bit more freaked-out than his brother’s. 

“Of course not,” promises Fleamont pleasantly, because he did think they’d settled the argument already, returning to his chores. 

“Your parents were just telling me what I can do to help out,” replies Lily, crossing her arms defiantly. A face-to-face with her boyfriend’s parents tonight was the last thing on her mind, but she’s not putting her foot down. 

“And they just said there’s nothing for you to do, didn’t they?” correctly guesses Sirius, making it sound as if it were the only possibility for her tonight. 

A bit desperate, but her mind set, Lily turns towards James. He scoffed at the same time as his brother, proving the absurdity of letting Lily work, but right now he’s leaning against the countertop, staring back at her, trying to make a use of those few brain cells he’s got and understand her reasons behind her plea. She hopes she doesn’t have to list them out loud right here, right now, in front of Mr. and Mrs. Potter. 

“Lily, let’s just go to the living room so you can take a seat,” suggests Sirius, offering her his arm to escort her out of the kitchen. 

“No,” replies James. 

Such an abrupt response surprises every member of the family, except Lily, who just sends her boyfriend an apologetic, yet appreciative, look. Before everyone starts shouting and listing all the reasons why they cannot in good conscience allow Lily to do anything tonight, James overtakes them by doing the exact opposite. 

“If I know my girlfriend, she cannot stay with her arms crossed for more than five minutes, and it’s still early before everyone comes,” he explains slowly. “I say we let her give us a hand.” 

Sirius is the first to catch on and act accordingly to what Lily and James were expecting, in spite of their parents still bellowing at James for his idea--the two boys know it’s the best concerning Lily. 

“Fine. If this is how you won’t be a pain in the ass all night long, be my guest,” he compromises, handing Lily some of the cutlery. 

“Sirius, that language!” scowls Euphemia. 

“Lily, give me those, you really don’t--” 

“No, really, Fleamont, I’m not good sitting on my hands,” promises Lily, escaping from the kitchen clutching onto the cutlery before Mr. or Mrs. Potter force her to stay, or take it all form her hands, magically. 

Getting unhurt to the living room, with Sirius and James behind her back, seems the safe port she was looking for; Fleamont and Euphemia stop trying to talk her out of helping and keep on cooking, grudgingly. The three of them share one long look and an identical smirk as they resume settling the table--a chore bigger than Lily’d anticipated, she finds out soon enough. First they have to polish the cutlery with the cloths James hands her, but all in all she sees way too many forks, spoons and knives before her, even for the amount of guests attending the dinner. She freezes on the spot, looking down on the cutlery before her. 

“Oh. Lily, it’s a formal dinner, so. . .There are about six or seven courses overall,” says Sirius, almost apologetically, when he catches her dumbfounded for a couple seconds, “with special cutlery required.” 

“So I see,” she stutters, trying to let that sink in, but really starting to understand she’s completely out of her league. 

James takes charge, dropping everything he was holding at that moment and going around the table to stand before Lily, fetching each of the cutlery pieces and showing them in a row on the table--he’ll do anything in order to keep Lily here and not let her flee the Potter Manor. 

“Hey, no reason to panic--there’s time for a quick lesson. First, the snacks: simple prawns, caviar, samples of cheese and foie gras, salad. You don’t worry about it, forks and knives will go around. First course: soup. Do we have to teach you how to eat soup?” 

“James,” scowls Lily, closing her eyes and really trying not to punch her boyfriend. Though he was just trying to ease the tension, they’re kind of in a clock now.

The man starts chuckling, not able to stop himself--and so Sirius steps in. 

“Just start using the spoon to your right and then pick up inwards with each course,” he says, signaling the forks, knives and spoons James’s laid in front of them all, in the correct order, to show it to Lily. 

“After the soup there’s fish, which of course--” 

Lily leans forward to grab the correct fish fork and knife, a smug look on her eyes--they already knew she’s a fast learner. 

“I wasn’t raised in a barn either, you know,” she chuckles. 

They nod in approval, a bit taken aback, but they promptly resume the exposition, all said in whispers out of consideration, so Mr. and Mrs. Potter don’t realize they’ve invited Lily to a gala dinner that’s not really her ken. After ten minutes or so, explaining many details about the cutlery, bread or drinks, they’ve given her a brief summary of everything--and they resume settling the table, Lily imitating the movements those of Sirius and James with the cutlery, glasses and even candlesticks. 

When they’re finished, Lily returns to the kitchen to give James and Sirius time to change into their gowns, helping the Potters cutting the bread in even portions and preparing a salad--the simplest tasks they could have given her. As was to be expected, the two brothers look magnificent dressed up for dinner, with equally impressive black tuxedos, bow ties and silver cufflinks. Sirius even managed to force James into applying a little bit of Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion so his hair matches his general looks. Lily can confess, though she’d never say so out loud, she’s hardly ever seen her boyfriend looking so sharp and prime--and almost gets her jealous. 

“I should probably change into something more formal,” she whispers, eyeing her dress and disbelieving the moment she thought this was up to tonight’s standards. 

“Don’t be silly,” scowls James, returning to his usual self despite of his dress. “You look amazing, Lily.” 

“Yeah, I promise you, some of the guests invited will envy your dress,” says Sirius, leaning in to kiss Lily briefly on the cheek. Only then does the girl see Sirius is holding as well a bottle of red wine, she assumes he’s just taken from the Manor’s cellar. 

“Guys?” yells Euphemia from the kitchen. “Your father and I need to change too. Can we trust you won’t burn everything down while we’re upstairs?” 

“Of course, Mom,” promises James, tired of the mistrust. 

“The first floor will still be here when you come back,” adds Sirius, mocking tone. 

“Stiffy is staying here downstairs,” says Fleamont. 

“Don’t worry, Mr. and Mrs. Potter, I’ll stay with them as well,” promises Lily, knowing they’ll be a bit more relaxed with her there. 

Sirius and James, rolling their eyes at the same time at her humorless private joke, drag her to the living room and join her on the couch, forcing her to sit down for the first time since she set foot in the Manor. They know those heels must already hurt her--and she’s got a long night ahead of her. 

Sitting in front of the chimney, between two of his favorite men in this world, Lily lets them take their time discussing something they read recently about Quidditch, accepting the subject as any other. With Mr. and Mrs. Potter upstairs, who’ve welcomed her in like a daughter of theirs, a table set for twenty-nine guests behind them, the fire crackling and warming their faces in front of them--she actually feels, for just a long second, as if she could belong here. As if she’d had this family all along, without even realizing so. 

James, seeing her actually relaxed and with a smile on her lips, leans closer to rest on her shoulder. On her other side, Sirius does the same and the three embrace in a big, warm hug and just enjoy the moment. 

Which constitutes the only second they get for themselves throughout the whole night--all of a sudden a couple bells chime around the living room, warning the household of someone approaching well in advance. Now Lily understands why James could be at the doorstep even before she’d actually rung. Given that Fleamont and Euphemia need some more time changing, comprehensively to their age, it falls down to James and Sirius the welcoming tasks--and Lily takes care of the coats, since Stiffy’s way busy in the kitchen. 

James introduces them to Lily as some old friends of his Dad from the company, though Lily doesn’t catch the name nor what company he meant; and before she’s got a chance to ask, the doorbell rings once more. Guests keep coming and within fifteen minutes, Lily can’t remember how many people she’s shaken hands with and kissed back. Fleamont and Euphemia appear with equally impressive tuxedos and dress gown, his the same as Sirius and James, with the addendum of the white gloves; her with a long-tailed magenta colored dress with long sleeves. They take charge of the host duties as soon as they show up, but James and Sirius still need to follow protocol and at least have a pleasant conversation with each of the guests before dinner, making sure refreshments have been served to everyone, so Lily stays with James, holding tight to his arm. 

At the agreed time, Fleamont and Euphemia announce dinner is served and so everyone heads for the table, James taking Lily with him to the spot two seats to Mr. Potter’s right. Showing some manners he’s never shown before to her, though in all honesty, she probably would have cursed him if he had, he helps her sit down. Before them, Sirius is doing the same with one of the guests, a widow, Mrs. Brassington, Lily thinks; so is doing every other male around the table, including Mr. Potter towards his own wife. 

Looking down again on the cutlery, Lily freezes for a second and squeezes James’s arm, pulling so hard that he has to hide a face of pain. 

“Don’t leave me,” she begs under her breath, her panic clear in her voice. 

James chuckles, dismissing her worries, but nods once encouragingly. Lily breathes again and then James turns towards the old woman on her other side, asking her about some upcoming renovation at her workplace. Surprised, Lily sees how Sirius can keep up the conversation with the guests around his side of the table. She finds herself wondering if Sirius and James, before any event like this one, are given a brief summary on the lives and works of the guest list before dinner; it’s impossible they can remember in such detail some things that specific about every person invited tonight, as if it were the multiplication tables or the Solar system. 

Fleamont stands and all the conversations vanish to hear his words. 

“I want to thank you all for being here,” he starts, a warm smile on his lips, looking affectionately at each and every one of the guests in turn, winking at Lily when he spots her, squeezing Euphemia’s hand, “my wife and I appreciate all your presence at our Manor tonight. Now, without further ado, I know you all must be starving as much as we both are, so--enjoy.” 

Everyone waits till the man’s sit down again to grab a hold of the many platters around the table, serve some of it in their own dish and hand over the platter along to the left. Lily’s handed the platter after James, who appreciatively half holds it for her so she doesn’t drop it because of the unexpected weight. She can pass the platter along to the man to her left and only then breathes again--when she realizes their glasses of wine, water and champagne are being filled at the same time. James surreptitiously reaches a hand to caress her elbow, which does a lot to help her calm down, before start his course. 

The man to Lily’s left, Mr. Burrel, is amiable enough to engage a conversation with her, asking about her studies and plans for the future, which Lily can’t really talk about--it’s difficult to confess to have no idea of what to do in the imminent years because of a War. However, the man insists politely and he seems really surprised to find out she’s from a Muggle family, a fact that attracts the attention of a few of the guests. Unfortunately, that leads to a lot of questions about their ways of living and many other inquiries Lily just cannot give an answer to without breaking down. 

She’s once again saved, whether she asked for it or not. 

“Yeah, well, Muggles have got a lot of weird customs we could never get along to, but that doesn’t mean our worlds should be kept apart from each other entirely, for all eternity, shouldn’t they?” asks Sirius then, raising his voice on purpose so most of the guests can hear the question. 

The heated conversation that follows was expected, coming from such a disputable argument, at a time like this, and Lily knows it’s not a subject that Mr. And Mrs. Potter would have wanted to hold tonight, but she also appreciates the distraction. Her face all red, she thanks Sirius before her blowing him a kiss, receiving a wink as a response. 

Despite her initial panic, she manages all throughout dinner, maybe thanks to the glasses of wine that keeps refilling no matter how much she drinks. But she manages to speak with those around her and is able to nod and laugh and feel outraged at the convenient times, as well as give, now and then, a good answer to some of the guests--she prefers to keep for herself her thoughts and particular point of view on the situation they’re living, as not to be the cause of mayhem to this beautiful party. Even when she’s in a tight spot, she can address Mr. and Mrs. Potter, who every time listen to her and answer her kindly. 

Later in the evening do the champagne glasses fill and slowly, the words “Merry Christmas” and a couple of “Happy Hanukkah” can be heard all around the dinner table. James turns to toast with her and even leans in for a brief, affectionate kiss on the lips, the first time tonight he’s engaged any kind of intimal attention towards her--and she fears the last one, still being too delicate, as if she were the flower her name comes from. But he does take a moment to promise her there’s a Christmas present waiting for her later in the evening, whether she wants it or not--she did tell James not to get anything for her. 

Lily finds herself having a hard time swallowing the sip of champagne--while all around, the conversations spring up once again, at ease. She tries to do the same, fall back into speaking with Mr. Burrel and the rest of the guests whose names she can hardly remember, but she can’t. She’s never known a Christmas like this. Her family was her sister and parents, plus an old uncle who died when she was four. They never had this many guests, much less for Christmas--a dozen tops, when Mom or Dad gathered at home some of his old school mates. And now, because of her, they never will. 

That’s the straw that breaks the camel’s back for her. She crumples the napkin over the table, a hand over her mouth as she leans towards James. 

“I need to hit the bathroom,” she excuses in a whisper. 

She meant to make a quiet, unnoticed exit, but as soon as she’s on her feet, all the men up and down the table stand as well. She freezes for some seconds, disbelieving she’s just managed to interrupt the dozen conversations that were taking place before her attempt at fleeing, pondering if she should apologize for the bother and sit down again. 

Of course, that would only make things worse, she realizes, as James, at her same eye level, squeezes her wrist she hadn’t realize he was holding. She looks at him and he points to the bathroom with his eyes, so only she can see. 

“Excuse me,” she says, louder voice, her stutter barely recognizable. 

As she steps away from the table, every men sits again, making her blush again. Had she known, she’d never even thought of leaving. 

Though that’s a lie; she needed to take a moment from the dinner. It would have been worse if she’d started crying right there on her seat, out of nowhere--the Potters would never survive the embarrassment. And by the time she gets to the bathroom, tears are already dropping from her eyes, messing all her make-up. 

Just like the rest of the Manor, the bathroom is eccentric and unnecessarily big, a hall with two sinks and a cupboard before the actual toilet room. The one thing she likes, however, it’s the bolt, that she locks immediately, needing some time alone. 

She grabs a piece of the toilet paper and tries to dry her tears, unsuccessfully, since they keep getting replaced by new ones every time she does. In the end she just gives up with a silent yell, throws the paper away and lets herself have this moment. She’s overcome every other stage of grief and mourning; but she still hadn’t had a good cry over her parents’ death. The only thing is, the Potter’s bathroom in the midst of a dinner gala, on Christmas night, probably wasn’t the apt scenario. 

There’s a weak knock on the door, confirming her thoughts. She has to swallow a couple times so her voice doesn’t break and the poor guest doesn’t panic because of her. 

“Occupied,” she says, hoping she can be heard through the double doors. 

“Oh, excuse me, dear,” it’s the woman’s response from the other side. 

“Uh--There’s another bathroom upstairs, to the right,” informs Lily. She’d feel worse if the woman had to stay outside while she manages to pick herself up, which might take more than a little while. 

“Thank you,” appreciates the unknown guest. Her heels turn away from the living room and the bathroom and vanish soon enough. 

Exhaling deeply, Lily sinks again, sitting down on the countertop between the two sinks, resting her hands on her knees. After two seconds, she starts shivering again and thick, warm tears drop to her dress and hands. All the remorse that never truly leaves her mind comes back at full weight to harass her once more; and she knows from experience, once regret sows, it’s almost impossible to make it go away. 

Almost thirty guests means there’s a constant come and go to the bathroom, considering the amount of drinks served; she’s starting to see that. Once again, three cautious knocks on the door cut her self-disdain. 

“Occupied,” she says, this time closer to a scowl. The indications for the other bathroom are at the tip of her tongue when the other person speaks up. 

“Lily?” asks James, worry tainting his voice. 

She doesn’t answer, sulking into her own depression. She cannot make it look as if it’s not her in here and there’s no way she can properly order him to leave her alone. Well, she could actually, but none of the guests would call it decorous. 

“You OK?” demands James on the other side. 

Once again, Lily doesn’t know how to answer that question and so she rather not to. This much silent only prompts James’s worry, instead of making him leave, however. He tries to force the doorknob to open and that’s when he notices the locked door. Worse thing is, that won’t stop him, if he doesn’t want it to. 

“I’m coming in, Lily,” he whispers. 

She doesn’t even hear the Alohomora being cast--maybe he used it non-verbally. Either way, next thing she knows, James is standing before her in the spacious bathroom, the door locked once more behind him, putting away his wand. Even in a formal tuxedo there’s this special place to put it in, so it’s at hand, just in case. 

He reaches both hands for her but changes his mind and ends up dropping his arms to his sides. That breaks Lily’s heart a bit more; she was looking forward to his touch, which is always so warm, so affectionate, so genuine, so encouraging, so helpful. She could never choose any other place to be or any other man in the world to marry to and spend the rest of her life by their side. It’s been too long since Severus made her feel anywhere close to this. 

She doesn’t have time to express everything out loud, so she just leans carefully until her head rests against James’s shoulder. He interprets it correctly and immediately sends his hands up to her cheeks, caressing her hair. 

“Lily, I’m so, so sorry,” he whispers. 

That’s the mantra he’s repeated over and over again ever since her parents were killed; the mantra he starts whispering yet once more onto her ear, against her lips, genuine, whole-heartedly, because it’s the only thing left to say. In the meantime, Lily can hardly stop crying, bawling her eyes out. 

“It’s alright, go ahead. Cry all you want,” James allows her, provided a Silencing Charm around the bathroom so none of the guests can hear Lily. It’s the first time she’s openly shown her feelings to him, he’s not about to forcefully make her stop. The guests can look for another bathroom. 

After the longest time, grabbing both James’s hands, Lily raises her head to look straight up at James. Tears still fresh in her cheeks, whimpers leaving her mouth now and then, she forces him closer, between her open legs, as much as the dress allows. Before the man tries to stop her, she leans in for a kiss, a real kiss, a deep, meaningful, filled with lust one, holding to James’s usual messy hair, as he does the same with hers and her neck, however unexpected the kiss was. 

“I’m sorry,” are the first words out of James mouth when they break the kiss, looking at every inch of Lily’s face to find signs of distress that tells him the kiss was completely off and out of place. 

“I’m sorry I walked out on dinner like that,” whispers Lily, her eyes still closed because of the embarrassment. 

“Don’t you ever say sorry for something that stupid,” scowls James, concerned replaced by mild anger. “You’re completely entitled to.” 

“Never meant to crash the party.” 

“You didn’t,” promises James. “You haven’t been in here for that long.” 

“James, I cannot stay. I’m in no condition of going back out there with all those guests--” 

“Oh, yes, you _are_ staying,” replies James, a little bit too menacing for Lily’s current mental state, but he considers it suitable. Plus, in such a large bathroom, he hasn’t stepped away from her, keeping his body almost touching hers, their arms around each other’s necks, which makes it all the more claustrophobic. “First of all, it’s Christmas, so you’re not going anywhere on your own. Second of all, it’d be worse if you were to disappear from dinner all of a sudden. Third, my parents would never forgive you if you did.” 

“Your parents would never forgive me if I show up out there looking like this,” she scowls, frenzied, shaking her head. She still hasn’t taken a look at the mirror but already knows her make-up is all over her face; it can’t be a pleasant sight for James. 

“That’s not true, they love you and they’d still love you even if you did something horrible,” promises him, shaking his head vigorously--the proximity making their noses graze. “Plus, what you look like it’s a minor issue.” 

“Minor issue?” explodes Lily, laughing out of hysteria. “D’you have any idea how long it took me to--?” 

James’ no longer listening to her; he’s escaped her arms around her neck and is now on his knees. For a second, her legs still as stretched out as the dress allows her to, he’s just too close to her body, which hasn’t received as much attention as she’s used to; and she gasps loudly. 

The reaction scares James nearly as much as Lily herself, as he looks up at her, looking for the cause of mayhem, ready to take his wand off should it be required. It takes him a second to understand, since it’s been a bit since they’ve had any kind of intimacy between the two, but then he smirks playfully, unashamedly--being fully aware of the thoughts that crossed Lily’s mind for a second. He reaches a hand for one of her hoisery covered legs and kisses it gently, a jolt of goosebumps expanding from that one spot to the rest of her body. 

“Another time, Lils,” he whispers under his breath, with that inciting voice of his, as she holds onto the sill. 

What he meant to do from the beginning is to open the cabinet below the sinks, rummaging the contents for a couple seconds, standing with a small, black purse, triumphant, as if he’d solved the mystery of the century--a mystery Lily was not aware of and proves so by shaking her head. However, this situation’s long over regarding Lily’s sorrow for her parents, but her suitable presence at the feast. And he’s going to exploit it to the best of his abilities, if that helps her mourn and move on with her life. 

“Mom used to say a proper bathroom isn’t completed without a first-aid powder kit for women,” explains James. 

Lily gasps again and grabs a hold to the purse, opening the zipper way too vigorously. A yelp almost escapes her mouth as she sees inside make-up products, the enough to work with the horrible face she’s got. 

“Sorry if it’s not exactly what you need,” whispers James. 

“It’s more than enough,” promises Lily, laying down on the counter the products. “Hand me a bit of paper, will you?” 

She’s got a piece within reach before she could finish the question. Using the makeup remover and a lot of water, James taking the precaution to hold her hair, she manages to cleanse all of her make up. With a clean face she would have dared to go back to the living room and all of the guests, but taking advantage of this precious first-aid kid, she applies a bit of powder, black eye-liner and vibrant red gloss for the lips. James stares at her from afar, not daring to bother her work, looking satisfied--and somehow surprised--by the result just a little bit of make-up can create. 

Still not over yet, she throws all the paper she’s used into the toilet, flushes, collects all the products she’s used and places the purse once more inside the cabinet. Only then she turns to face James, a smirk on her lips, her head tilted. 

“So?” 

James takes a second to answer, stepping closer, resting both hands on her hips. 

“That was--surprisingly inciting,” he confesses finally. 

Lily bursts out chuckling, as James leans closer so she can actually notice against her hip his real thoughts about the whole process she made. 

“Now, that’s something that needs to be taken care of,” laughs Lily, sending a hand down his stomach, till she reaches the increasing erection through his tight pants. 

“Are you kidding?” replies James, hardly keeping it cool despite his best intentions. “I’m not messing with that perfect make up you pulled off.” 

“I didn’t mean right this second,” laughs Lily, proving he was getting a little bit ahead of himself in the worst of times. “We can pick this up later, in your bedroom--to celebrate Christmas all on our own. Now, we should really go back to the dinner.” 

“You cannot tell me that and expect me to come out of here next second,” groans James. 

Now it’s him the one who leans against the sinks, taking deep breaths, with Lily looking down on him with a smirk on her lips, showing that despite everything, she’s still and forever be the one wearing the pants in this relationship. It takes James somewhat close to a minute gather up the strength to stand. 

“Come on. There’s someone who wants to talk to you,” he says, motioning for her to open the bathroom’s door. 

She obliges, curious to see who’s he talking about--never thought her crazy behavior throughout dinner could have encouraged anyone to willingly speak to her in their lives. James shakes his head surreptitiously, making her believe against hope she wasn’t acting so weirdly at dinner. 

James rests a hand over her shoulder as they head back, knowing that simple gesture will stop her from running away once some of the guest’s eyes fall down upon her. She hopes with all her might she actually does look the same as earlier and no-one can tell she’s been crying. Moreover, James leans in to whisper one sentence to her ear, that she thought was supposed to encourage her, but achieves something else altogether. 

“I’ll hold you onto that proposition for sex later, you know,” he promises. 

She forces her gasp and yelp down her throat, as they’re already dangerously close to the table and all the guests, but internally, she only wishes to kick James’s ass. This one was completely on purpose--and she sees once more the childish kid he was back in first grade, with all the stupid pranks he pulled. If looks could kill. . . He’d have dropped dead the first time he and her exchanged their first words. 

Once more, every men stands when she reaches the table, with James, that smirk ever present on his lips, giving her a hand to sit down. Conversations resume and Lily reaches for her napkin to find out, not at all surprising, that she hasn’t missed a course. These kind of dinners, she’s starting to learn, take their time--maybe, if she’s very lucky, the guests haven’t even noticed her long absence. 

In front of her, Sirius catches her eye and raises both eyebrows, in a very direct, silent question. She smiles feebly and nods once, promising that she’s alright. When she takes a sip of her champagne, looking around just in case someone caught their silent exchange, she realizes Mr. and Mrs. Potter were also concerned about her and smile broadly and warmly at her. She corresponds the same way, hoping they can understand that thanks to them both, she actually feels like home, which is the main problem to start with. 

“Lily,” says James to her right, raising his voice so a man three seats to Sirius’ left can hear them, “remember Mr. Pierson? Who works at St. Mungo’s hospital?” 

“Yes, of course, Mr. Pierson,” lies Lily, leaning forward. “What is it you do exactly?” 

“I work for the Department of Treatment and Prevention of Poisonous, Pernicious and Virulent Substances,” he says, the real question being how on Earth did he manage to learn the whole title. 

“And such work entitles--?” Lily tries to make out. 

“Treatment for people who’ve been poisoned,” explains Mr. Pierson calmly, certainly used to get that one question. “Figuring out what potions and remedies can counter effect the most lethal venoms and poisons on this dangerous Wizardry world.” 

Lily leans forward, needless to say, completely interested in Mr. Pierson’s job now that she understands what he truly does. She secretly wishes that, knowing her interests, Fleamont and Euphemia had put her by Mr. Pierson’s seat--she’s all forgotten about her Potter boyfriend. 

“That’s fascinating,” she says, truly excited, even when some of the guests don’t think so in the slightest and are immersed in other subjects of conversation. “So, you’ve been in those Hooded Pitohui cases, haven’t you?” 

“Excuse me? What was that, dear?” asks Mrs. Terrell, two seats from Mr. Pierson. 

“You mean those strange cases of people intoxicated by some kind of bird’s venom?” says Mr. Burrel. 

“Yes, that’s exactly what I was meant,” confirms Lily. 

“Oh, yes, it was on the papers a couple weeks ago,” says Mr. Woodhams, from the head table opposite to Mr. and Mrs. Potter. “You still haven’t found the source of the poisoning?” 

“The source of the poisoning isn’t the main problem,” replies Lily before Mr. Pierson can put in a single word. “The venom was identified rather quickly--it was homobatrachotoxin and was presumably taken from a type of songbird from New Guinea. Though the fact that none of the people intoxicated had ever stepped foot outside the UK should be taken into account.” 

“Miss Evans is completely right and incredibly up to date,” sighs Mr. Pierson deeply, regretting being in charge of the Department right about now. “We identified the poison easily enough--it’s the same venom found in South American dart frogs and they’ve had a few intoxicated cases in the past centuries, though when it comes from the New Guinea songbirds, it’s severely more toxic than the dart frogs.” 

“Then, the problem relies in the antidote?” asks Fleamont. 

“Indeed,” confirms Mr. Pierson sullenly, caressing his napkin with a little bit too much stress energy, as a calming technique. “It takes weeks to produce a vial-amount, which isn’t enough to cure a single person, only to reduce its effects for a while.” 

“That long?” demands Mrs. Ecclestone. 

“Following the recipe is a torment process even to those most brilliant and talented of my teams,” sighs Mr. Pierson sullenly. The unsaid words are easy to understand: while they work for the remedy to slow the effects of the poison, it might be too late to some of the intoxicated victims. 

“You say these people never left the UK and the bird came from New Guinea? How’s that possible? How’d they get poisoned?” demands Mrs. Terrell, a bit frenzied about the whole issue. 

While Mr. Pierson tries to give somewhat of an explanation that doesn’t hold water, Lily, Sirius and James exchange one long, knowing look with Fleamont and Euphemia. They’ve talked the case among the family and with the Order and have their own suspicious about it. The venom had to be taken from New Guinea to the UK by someone to target those specific wizards and witches--and who’d favor more from such a crazy plan than Lord Voldemort and his Death Eaters? None of the intoxicated people were affiliated to the Dark Side. Though on the other hand, none of the victims were either people who openly confronted Voldemort and his Death Eaters, nor hold any important public office. They seem random acts, which is why they can’t link the intoxications to any political means. 

“We’ve got enough in our plate with treating the effects of the venom,” replies Mr. Pierson. “Any questions related to the investigation concerning those who were poisoned should be directed to the Ministry of Magic.” 

“That your official statement, Joseph?” laughs Fleamont, raising his glass to the man to prove he was just mocking him--because it did resemble the statement Mr. Pierson addressed the Daily Prophet when the scandal rose. 

“Might be,” chuckles him. 

“You make it sound like you’re understaffed and underqualified,” remarks Mr. Jakeman, eyebrows frowned, his fork hanging mid-air as he’s too caught up in the conversation. “Didn’t St. Mungo’s receive quite recently a generous income for research from the Government? Are you that tight, Joe?” 

“Oh, the influx would have been enough, my friend, if we actually had got the money. The news are one thing, but reality is something else altogether,” replies Mr. Pierson, shaking his head sullenly. “We got only a part of what we’d been promised, not good enough for all the Departments.” 

“Probably just an excuse to look good on the papers and reduce the pressure they were on from the Wizengamot to meet the therapeutic threshold they’d promised,” comments Mrs. Terrell, as if everyone knew that’s exactly what happened--and judging by the murmurs of agreement, that might be so. 

“You might have to say goodbye to the rest of that money, Joseph,” says Euphemia apologetically. As an old nurse at St. Mungo’s, she personally knows how devastating it must be not to receive all the help one was hoping to achieve. 

“Afraid so,” confirms Mr. Pierson, before he pierces Lily with his eye once more. “My inital point, however, was to confirm some rumors I heard about your guest Miss Evans.” 

Lily forces a smile to her lips, but freezes internally, fearing what Mr. Pierson might come up with now; there might be a couple rumors out there that could embarrass her in front of Mr. and Mrs. Potter and end up ruining her reputation. By her side, James winks at her, promising it’s alright, and she does her best to relax and put her brain to work as of now. Whatever this is about, she cannot look like an incompetent fool. 

“I hear you’re rather good at Potions back at Hogwarts, aren’t you?” says the man. 

She breathes out, appreciating staying on a subject she knows, while Fleamont answers for her. 

“Not ‘rather good’, Joseph,” interjects the host, a bit outraged that her skills might be diminished in any way or taken for granted by any one of his guests. “She excels at it, from what I’ve been told.” 

“She does,” promises James, grabbing Lily’s hand over the table, for everyone to see. 

“Wow. Getting praised by a Potter family member is saying a lot,” confesses Mr. Pierson, ogling Lily with very different eyes now--evaluating, examining the girl and her potential. 

“Indeed,” agrees the woman by Mr. Pierson’s side, though not his wife. “You must be quite something. I must say, I’m impressed,” she praises, raising her glass at Lily. 

“Thank you, Fleamont; and thank you, Mr. Pierson, Mrs. Herbertson,” she can appreciate their words, provided by James reminding her the name of the woman in a low whisper only she can hear. “I’d say Mr. Potter’s praising me too much, but that would be the lie.” 

In front of her, Sirius barely contains a chuckle, hiding it in taking a sip of red wine; and James rests a hand on her thigh, praising her impromptu, but also begging her to keep it cool--this is after all a Christmas dinner and these are all family guests. All around the table she gets varying faces of surprise and bewilderment. Guess they’d expected a bit of modesty coming from a new guest in the household, but they just cannot ask her not to be herself. Mr. and Mrs. Potter only look content, however, so apologizing doesn’t even cross her mind. 

“Well, if both Professor Slughorn and Mr. Potter value you in such high regard, you must be something else, young lady,” confirms Mr. Pierson, tilting his head. As if he were still doubtful of Lily’s abilities. 

“I find it funny, you know?” asks Mrs. Ryer, who may or may have not drunk a bit too much already, judging by the strange smile on her lips and her glass raised demanding a refill. 

“What is it you find amusing, ma’am?” presses Sirius. 

The woman chuckles, a loud, high-pitched sound, since she considered that answer to be obvious to one and all. 

“Muggleborns actually being praised in the Wizardry World. Dear Merlin, where will we end up fifty years from now if we keep on being this immature?” she chuckles. “And how could a Muggleborn ever manage to achieve those praises--” 

Mrs. Ryer’s eyes turn to look at Lily, her glass raised signaling at the girl by James’s side. Lily doesn’t need the older woman finishing her sentence to understand what she meant and to know she doesn’t want to hear the ending of that statement; the woman’s clearly been displeased by Lily’s presence since the moment they was first introduced. 

Before allowing her to explode in such a festivity, Sirius speaks. 

“You mean to say, Mrs. Ryers, that we shouldn’t praise Muggleborn wizards for their rightful achievements, the same way the Ministry does every year, giving recognition to any wizard or witch who’s done a great service to the Wizardry World?” he demands. “Now what would lead you to think that?” 

“Please, don’t mind my wife, m’dear,” excuses Mr. Ryers, chuckling nervously while glancing at Lily’s face, hoping she won’t be outraged by her insinuations. He takes the glass of wine away from his wife’s hands, who does her best to keep the complaints to the bare minimum. “And don’t take it personally; she can’t hold her liquor.” 

The statement is met by several chuckles up and down the table, everyone looking forward to put an end to this more than unpleasant subject. Of course, none of them know Lily Evans like the Potter family members do; James, though he joins in the general laughter, is fully aware his girlfriend won’t forget the issue easily. And she proves him right. 

“Well, Mrs. Ryers. . . I cannot speak on behalf all of the Muggleborns who’ve been awarded in the past by the Ministry, but at least for me, the thing is--I spent my whole childhood in the kitchen with my mother. She taught me everything I know about cooking. Guess after all, a casserole and a cauldron aren’t that different at all--you only have to follow a recipe and be creative now and then.” 

Her words are met with a stunned silence, but she knows it’s just the time and place; had she been able to deliver such a comeback at Hogwarts, the Order or any other kind of event, James and Sirius--and probably Fleamont and Euphemia--would be on the floor, roaring with laughter. The most decorous thing they can show today is a nod of approval from the elder Potters, a wink from Sirius and a half-embrace from James, hugging her by the wrist before his arm returns to the table. The rest of the guests don’t dare to say a thing, on Lily’s nor Mrs. Ryers’ behalf--some are just staring blankly at the hosts or away from the table, others are taking an unnecessary long sip of wine, others fill their mouths with too much food. Fleamont saves the day for everyone, addressing the man who sprung this whole subject. 

“Joseph, I hope this whole surprise isn’t due because she comes from a Muggle family,” he says, his voice a bit harsh and reproachful, but still bemused. 

“Of course not,” promises Mr. Pierson, looking falsely outraged. 

“Not this again,” begs a woman at the end of the table that Lily cannot see from her spot. 

“Melanie, my husband didn’t mean to engage again a debate we’re all fed up with already,” calms Euphemia, chuckling, resting a hand on Fleamont’s arm, “but I must say, there are renowned Muggleborn Wizards out there and you cannot deny their existence. One of them, my future daughter-in-law, Lily Evans.” 

The title she’s mentioned makes Lily blush, James gloat in his personal glory and outrage a bit more some of the guests, only adding fuel to an old, unnecessary to the occasion, fire. The Potters have been traditionally pro-Muggles. 

“My initial point,” Mr. Pierson takes the floor again once the whispers have vanished, “was that at St. Mungo we’re in desperate need of new, fresh blood to work for us.” 

“You make it sound as if you need a sacrificial lamb, Joseph,” laughs Mrs. Warrington. 

“Could you please not frighten a possible future employee, darling?” demands Mr. Pierson, he adds, making a burst of laughter raise around the table, as Lily blushes again. “Of course we aren’t looking for any human sacrifice, Miss Evans. The question remains--would you be interested in an internship at St. Mungo’s, dear?” 

Although she hadn’t thought it at first, Lily finds herself without a problem to hold a long-lasting conversation for the rest of the evening. She and Mr. Pierson keep talking about his work at St. Mungo’s over the remaining courses, the dessert and even when they move over the salon for further drinks. The subject about maladies and severe cases of intoxications the doctors could not solve in time is met with annoyed grunts and disgusted faces all night long, maybe not appropriate for the dinner they’re in, but Lily cannot stop herself from asking Mr. Pierson question after question--and he’s too happy to answer each and every one of them. They forget all about the other guests and Lily barely looks at James, Sirius or their parents when they come by to exchange some words with the two of them, checking they’re both behaving. Lily certainly wasn’t expecting this apathetic at first dinner to end up with a job proposal for when she finishes her academic studies at Hogwarts.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A celebration amongst the Marauders after Gryffindor wins the third Quidditch Cup on a row.

After the longest hour, celebrations are over now. The minute Madame Conneely’s whistle signaled the end of the game after the Seeker caught the Golden Snitch, students from the four Houses have invaded the field to welcome, cheer and congratulate the winning team as if they’d won the World Cup--but nowadays almost anything’s worth celebrating on a broad scale. Having very little space to land and being immediately drowned in a multitudinous hug by one and by all, the members of the winning team take their time shaking hands and thanking each student and teacher gathered, thus needing almost ten minutes to get to the podium and receive from the Headmaster the Quidditch Cup, in another burst of cheers and applause, as the prize passes from hand to hand amongst the members of the team. 

The unnecessary photoshoot of the seven team members gets an exasperated roll of eyes from one Lily Evans, specially considering the spotlight isn’t even over yet. The fourteen members of both teams shake hands and congratulate on a well-played match before the winning team members mount their broomsticks again and raise into the air. Promising another show, students and staff return to their seats as the winning team does the usual loop around the stadium in a triangular formation, absorbing the buoyancy they get from everyone in the pitch. 

But nothing’s merely how’s supposed to be when it comes to that particular Quidditch team. They aren’t satisfied with a single loop, but they keep circling, hovering, faster by the second, till sometimes they’re just red blurs against the clear sky--the wind has taken away the clouds and the cold. They also take their time to do some show-off and vertiginous pirouettes: standing or handstanding on their broomsticks at a hundred yards height, plummeting to the ground and avoiding collision at the very last second. Someone from the audience--Lily doesn’t bother to pinpoint who exactly, knowing it was just one of those four--lights some fireworks up in the sky, lighting everything in every imaginable color before the shiny words “Congratulations, third Quidditch Cup in a row!” form in three humongous circles, commemorating the team’s victories. It’s quite the show--even the Ravenclaw team are enjoying it. 

Finally the Gryffindor Quidditch team makes its descend to solid ground, giving time to the majority of students to occupy the field once more to give them the second congratulatory greeting. After some more minutes they allow the seven players time to change, and the rest of scholars head for the castle, carrying the Cup and making great plans for the celebration, most of them including a late-time dinner, some pranks provided by devices from Zonko's and, above all, a lot of booze--thankfully the staff’s left already and they don’t hear anything about it and Lily also does her best to overlook it all. 

Moreover, knowing her boyfriend, Lily bids farewell to her friends and Gryffindor students and returns to the stands, at this point empty and impossibly quiet, compared to ten minutes earlier, the red banners now the only remains of the spectacular event, the celebrations and Gryffindor’s victory. 

The team members leave the dressing room in high spirits, in roars of laughter and joy, commenting in full detail on some particular moment throughout the match. Most of them head for the castle too, but as she suspected, James spots her within minutes. Though her light mood disappears in a growl when she sees him approaching flying, instead of walking like a normal human being. 

“Haven’t you spent enough time on that broomstick already?” she snaps when James’s within hearing range. 

“Haven’t I proven to you that I can spend a whole day on my broomstick and still not get tired of it?” replies him, an impossibly wide grin on his face that she knows won’t disappear in the next few hours. 

“Multiple times,” she sighs in frustration. “Sometimes I do wonder who you love most.” 

“Oh, don’t give me that, Evans. Couldn’t compare apples and pears.” 

“Nice thing to say to one’s girlfriend,” she scoffs, crossing her arms. 

“Hey, I’m hearing a lot of complaining, but not a single well-wish for your boyfriend.” 

“And what is it exactly that you want to hear?” she demands. 

James chuckles under his breath, but doesn’t answer verbally. Instead, he somehow gets his broomstick to work for him so they’re exactly at the same eye level and he can lean into her ear. His nose touches briefly a lock of her hair, brushing it slightly away, and she gasps, barely audible. He doesn’t say a word and yet she finds herself whispering these words: 

“Congratulations on your victory, Chaser Potter,” which makes the boy chuckle again and retreat slightly, whether she wanted or not. “Don’t you want a congratulatory kiss as well?” she suggests in a whisper, because she does, and he’s too far away. 

“Do I get one?” he asks, tilting his head. 

Now that he’s set some distance between them, Lily can regain her composure after taking a long, deep breath to focus her mind. “You’ll have to beg,” she replies hiding her frustration as best as she can. Without excelling, judging by James’s laughter. 

“I’d rather beg for something else altogether.” 

“What--?” 

The conversation’s drifted way off the topic she was imagining at the beginning, but all confusion or surprise is transformed into anger and exasperation when James shows a broomstick out of nowhere. 

“Oh, no,” she scowls. “Forget it.” 

“Come on, Evans, I can’t be the Chaser of the team who’s won the Quidditch Cup three years in a row and date a girl who’s afraid of broomsticks.” 

“I’m most certainly **not** \--” 

“What you are is afraid of flying because you’re afraid of broomsticks. Let’s put an end to it, now. Please, for me,” he begs when she keeps on refusing, “we’re alone, there’s nothing to be embarrassed for.” 

“James--”, she scoffs. 

“Please?” whimpers him. “I am begging here--I really am. I can’t get down on my knees.” 

“Pity.” 

And yet, for some reason, after some more seconds, she takes James’s hand and stands up on the bench, the second broomstick at her waist height. It’s opposite to their first-year Flying Lessons; he does want her to learn, to conquer her fears, not to mock her. Still. . .

“Don’t look down,” he warns, only too late. She gets dizzy just trying to estimate the distance there is to solid ground--and whatever it is, she knows it’d be enough to leave her quadriplegic, at best. 

“Thanks, but no, thanks,” she refuses, sitting down again, “I’m not interested in breaking my neck.” 

“You won’t,” promises James. “I’ve got your back in the field, Evans. As usual.”

She understands the second meaning to his words just because--they’re true. They protect each other every time they run an errand for the Order, however dangerous it may be. They have each other’s backs. And for him to say this to her now, on this context, it’s just the final straw to believe him. How couldn’t she trust him now? 

Without second thoughts, she grabs his hand and climbs onto the broomstick, holding tight to it. It doesn’t push her down, that’s a start. James then grabs her broomstick very gently and slowly, as to let her see his every movement, shifting it ever so slightly--and they hover for a few yards, until there’s nothing below them but air and a hundred yard free-fall. She panics and leans into the broomstick, air escaping her lungs, face pale. 

“Hey, relax,” soothes James at once, “this is nothing.” 

“I think my fear of heights has just been confirmed,” she whispers, so fast James can’t decipher her words exactly, just imagine what she meant. 

“Give me two minutes and you won’t be anymore.” 

“Beginning to question your mentoring skills, here.” 

“Hey, come on. Relax. Focus on my voice. Nothing bad’s gonna happen,” he promises. 

“You sure?” 

“One hundred percent. What do you fear?” he asks, trying another angle that just knows will prove to be more efficient, considering who he's talking to. 

“Jeez, I don’t know, being pushed down by a broomstick?!” she shrieks. 

Despite her yell, he remains cool and doesn’t snap at her, nor flies away, knowing none of it will help her at this moment. 

“A broomstick would never do that, Evans. ‘Cause, you see, a broomstick will always follow its rider’s commands. That’s what Madame Connelly didn’t teach you.” 

“Really? Because back in first year I remember summoning my broomstick and it never moved from the spot, and right now I’m begging it to take me down to the ground. Last time I checked,” she theatrically looks down to confirm where they’re hovering exactly, getting sick again at seeing the vertiginous nothingness below her feet, “yep, still at a surely-dead height.” 

James does his best not to snap at her, burst out laughing or kick her out of the broomstick, but either way can’t hide the tiredness and sternness from his voice. “They will follow your every command, if you give them properly.” 

This snaps Lily out of it. Quitting her ranting, forgetting everything, including where they’re at, as she stares coldly at James--a glare worse than an actual fall from here. And all of a sudden her broomstick’s moved on its own will, twenty inches forward, almost knocking James out of his. Only his perfect reflexes, holding tightly to his broomstick and hugging Lily with his free hand, prevent the accident she was fearing--though she isn’t that terrified anymore. 

“How was that?” she asks, venom--and pride--in her voice. 

“Not bad,” confesses James, panting, as he returns her to her broomstick, “if your aim was to kill your boyfriend.” 

“Guess we’ll never know if that little accident was due to clumsiness or not.” 

“Okay, now that you understood what I meant, can we focus on flying and not killing each other?” he demands a bit exasperated, still panting. “Please?” 

“Well, I couldn’t exactly compare apples and pears. . .” 

“Now you’re just being mean,” he scowls. 

“But sure, what the heck,” resumes her as if she hadn’t heard him. “Proceed, maestro.” 

Exhaling deeply and approaching her carefully, warning her not to knock him out of the broomstick again, James spends the next half hour or so explaining the basics on how to command moving forward, speed up, turn either way she wants to go, and stop, including the slight variations on the body--and mind, truth be told--to make it all happen, practicing prudently all around the stadium, gaining height, plummeting, doing some tight turns, stopping at the last-minute warning. 

“Ready for a spin, then, Evans?” he suggests in the end, when it seems she’s mastered all but the basics. 

Though she feels nothing but, she follows his suit and manages to finish the whole loop around the pitch without ending up a red splatter on the ground or a broken limb, which surprises her greatly--James looks as content as ever, as if he had predicted all along this would have happened. She doesn’t have the time or nerve, up here, to snap at him. 

Without asking permission anymore, James leads her for a second, a third and yet a forth loop, speeding a bit more in each one. She doesn’t complain and bursts out laughing somewhere during their third round. This new point of view of the pitch, James convincing her to do what she vowed never to try again, actually getting her to fly on her own, no worries on her mind as if they’d been taken away from the wind as well, all the scenery mixed in merely three palettes, her hair all loose--she can’t contain it. And hearing James’s chuckle in front of her doesn’t upset her either, on this instance. 

All of a sudden something catches her eye, distracting her completely from flying. She doesn’t even realize she’s come to a sudden stop mid-air until James passes by her in a blur and only reacts when he’s fifty yards from her. He returns to her position as fast as before, looking anxious, trying to decipher what’s unnerved Lily this way--he thought everything was going smoothly. 

She doesn’t answer him, but stares right ahead, and so James spins around again. It’d be actually difficult for some menace to come their way at this place and moment--he needs two embarrassingly long minutes to realize what’s Lily really looking, not dismayed, but rather amazed. 

It’s late--the sun is setting, a reddish sphere between the mountains, transforming the Great Lake into a punch-ish pond and the fields and Forest, an orange mantlepiece. It’s such a marvelous scenery in front of them that’s made her forget everything, being completely at peace and at ease at the given time, given the company she’s keeping. And apparently, James’ feelings match hers exactly. Only when the sun’s disappeared behind the mountains, the ten kind of setting colors as a trail of sunset, does he pat her shoulder carefully. 

“Tell me you regret me forcing you to mount on that broomstick,” he whispers, as if trying not to break the good mood again. 

She doesn’t even look away from the beautiful landscape in front of them.

“You know I never refuse a dare,” says she, chuckling, being far too competitive at this point, “but I’m also an honest person.” 

“Oh?” asks James, chuckling too. 

“I couldn’t say I regret it,” she sighs deeply, now refusing to look at James in the eye, “‘cause I would have missed this,” she finishes, signaling broadly at everything around them. She leans into James, turning her head to get a kiss from him.

 “And I wouldn’t have got my congratulatory kiss,” he adds afterwards. 

Leaning comfortably into each other with an ease she would never have believed, not six years from now or ten minutes before, they stay silent for some more minutes, their surroundings gradually becoming darker, until only black silhouettes can be distinguished against the clear sky. Lily sighs again, glancing at everything below and around her. 

“I’m going to miss this place,” she confesses. 

James nods and tilts his head to brush off a flock of her hair, maybe trying to distract her, but this is something she will not try, at least this time, she decides, painfully detaching herself from him. 

“We’re not making out at a hundred-yard height,” she sentences. 

James chuckles but lets her go and, just to be on the safe side, shifts his broomstick to establish some physical distance between them two, so no-one gets any life-threatening ideas. Thankfully, they’re distracted by someone else. 

“Looking good up there, Evans!!” 

Sirius has obviously amplified his voice with the sonorus incantation so they could hear him; down on the pitch, Padfoot, Wormtail and Moony, three black dots barely distinguishable from the grass, are looking up on them, clearly expecting them to get down. Their chances to make out are unfortunately gone--though it’s not like they haven’t caught them shagging around the castle at some point during this last year, doing so now would just be crossing the line. The couple exchange a longing look, both of them sharing the same thoughts with that single glance, sigh deeply as to agree to get down to the pitch. 

The movements come to Lily almost naturally; she has absolutely no problem at all heading towards solid ground at a safe angle and relatively safe speed, to come to a stop only by the three Marauders and descend easily off her broomstick when she’s sure she can just jump the couple feet to the grounds. She does so with such an elegance, calm and easiness that surprise the three Marauders, who stare at her in what she understands, disbelief. 

“Wow,” sighs Peter, apparently summing up in that word Padfoot’s and Moony’s thoughts too. 

“You should have tried this before,” says Moony, “you almost look like a natural.” 

“Thanks,” says she politely, bowing, “though maybe the teacher I had was one hell of an instructor,” she grants. “Don’t tell him I said that,” she forbids sternly, as James lands a few feet beside her. 

They all chuckle, but greet Prongs as if she’d said nothing of that sort. 

“Thought to come and fetch you two lovebirds before you decided to spend the whole night flying,” they say, walking towards the pitch’s broomstick cabinet. “If not something else, from what we saw.” 

“Maybe it was a good call,” confesses James. 

“Plus, you were missing your own celebration party,” adds Peter. 

“That would have been disappointing.” 

Lily stops on her track and turns to face her boyfriend. His words were most certainly not sincere and he really looks as if he didn’t care about missing the Gryffindor party--which just doesn’t add up with the boy she knows since first year. 

“I’m surprised you’re not running towards the Common Room. You love being at the spotlight.” 

“Something we’re all aware of,” says Remus. 

“Specially you, huh, Moony?” 

“Shut up,” he scowls, punching Prongs in the arm. 

“ _What am I missing?_ ” demands Lily, looking at the four Marauders. James isn’t bawling for missing the party and moreover, they’re still joking, wasting time. There’s something she doesn’t know--and when it comes to these four, she doesn’t like not knowing, which is most of the time. 

“Don’t make such a fuss,” begs Sirius. “We just planned our own celebration party at our place this weekend.” 

That takes a heavy burden off of Lily’s shoulders, who was starting to consider if she should go warn McGonagall and tell her to plan any necessay precautions against whatever plans these four had in mind. “Should have guessed,” she scowls. 

“Want to come?” invites Padfoot nonchalantly. “I thought James would have already invited you.” 

“Well, now that she doesn’t fear flying and it won’t be a shame having her there, I can invite her,” replies the boy. 

“Jeez, who could refuse such an offer, Potter?” 

“Would ‘please’ change anything?” he tries to mend, however knowing the answer. 

“It just might.” 

Padfoot steps forward, trying to save James’s neck, certainly not for the last time. “What if I cook, Evans?” 

“Then I’m coming for sure,” she says. And they all burst out laughing, including James, who’s come to accept the innocent bickering and taunting between them two. 

“Okay, that’s settled, then,” decides Padfoot. “You’re in for a delicious coq au vin and then--you know, I can make breakfast as well.” 

His remark is met with a burst of laughter from Peter, Remus and James and an incredulous scoff, though luckily not angry, from Lily. Anyhow, it was predictable--Lily and James were just assuming it--that the girl would be staying over for the party, even if Sirius was just suggesting it not so delicately. 

“Subtelty isn’t your forte, Pads,” scoffs Lily. 

The man just shrugs, accepting what he takes as a compliment--he’s been called worse. “Never has--though I never claimed it was.”


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At some point during their seventh year at Hogwarts, Lily decides she too will be giving a hand out on the full moon nights.

It’s not even dawn on a weekday and it’s freaking cold--three very good reasons as why she should turn around, head back to the Gryffindor Tower and hide under the thick blankets for a couple more hours, till breakfast. Perhaps she could even skip Apparition and show up for Transfiguration class in second period. 

Despite her thoughts, she keeps on walking down the fields, without much regret--she’s out of bed for a good cause. She’s well wrapped up in her pajamas, her robes and an extra blanket over her shoulders, she really shouldn’t complain. Her wand at the ready on her right hand--you never know who else will be out here tonight, even when the sky is still dark and she has to be careful with her step in order not to slip on the frost and humid grass. Some birds start flying now and then, that’s all the movement her sleepy eyes catch from time to time. Hagrid’s not even playing his flute yet--students can usually tell the hour depending on his flute, although the melody changes according to his state of mind, so it’s not entirely reliable, nor an exact science. 

It was on the full moon of three months ago, in September, when it wasn’t as cold as it is now and she wasn’t shivering all the way down, when she had an unpleasant meeting that kept her from going to the Shrieking Shack in order to help Remus--and the look on the boy’s face before she could explain, when he thought she’d broken her word and abandoned him, still haunts him. But it was, in the end, all Severus’s fault. He’d kept an eye out for her and followed her out of the Castle, determined, as usual, to find evidence that proved Remus’s werewolf condition. They had yet another one of their confrontations, they quarreled, and neither one gave in. Even after she hexed Severus into a signing bird in a human form, he persisted, and so she had to give up on her plans and took Severus to the infirmary with a lame-ass excuse. Since then, she’s asked her Prefect fellow students to keep an eye out for Severus and she took twice James’s Invisibility Cloak. She didn’t think such measure would be necessary today, although she wouldn’t have minded another layer of clothing over her shoulders. 

Finally the Whomping Willow is on sight, naked from any leaves, breaking the sky with the erratic movements of its deadly branches. Lily stops at a secure distance, points her wand at the tree and pronounces the Freezing Charm. After two seconds, the Whomping Willow relaxes and her branches stop moving, making it safe for Lily to pass by the tree and go down the hidden trapdoor into the Shrieking Shack. 

Although she figured out Lupin’s werewolf condition easily enough, she couldn’t believe it when the Marauders told her he’d been spending all his transformations within Hogwarts grounds, so close to the Castle, guarded only by a tree--a treacherous and murderous tree, proven by Dave Gudgeon’s accident back in their first year--but still, the Staff and the Headmaster didn’t take nearly enough measures for the safety of the students. Only when she was a Prefect was she warned to be strictly stern concerning students out of bed on full moon nights, such as this one, instead of, you know, warning students from their first-year not to wander around on full moon nights. Of course, that could have been an indicator that there was a werewolf amongst them, but not many people would believe such a rumor. 

She stops when she sees a rat coming out of the passageway she was just about to take. The rat freezes too upon seeing her and smells his surroundings--Lily can see his little nose moving. When he sees Lily, he approaches her and rests one little paw on her shoe, as if wanting to prevent her from advancing any further. Lily kneels, observing Womrtail up close now that she’s got the chance. 

“You’re telling me not to go in?” she asks. 

The rat kind of makes an affirmative gesture and Lily nods, showing she understands. She’s too early; the Marauders warned her that coming before Remus’ transformation has completed could incite his animal traits with her smell and endanger everyone present. She guesses that’s the reason why Peter stays in his animagus form even outside the passageway. 

“Come on, Wormtail,” she says. She’s too close to the Willow and it’s been too long since she cast the Freezing Charm; she wants to move from here. She grabs Wormtail from the floor, carefully, knowing that if she applies too much pressure, she could break one of his limbs or more than one rib--that was, up to date, one of the Marauders’ worst accidents concerning Wormtail. 

She takes him to a safe distance from the tree and then kneels once more, leaving Wormtail on the floor. She takes off one of her gloves and lets Wormtail in, surprised to see that he almost fits in perfectly--he looks very comfortable and warm in there that she can’t help but smile. The three boys must have suffered a very long night keeping Lupin company. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t bring any food,” she apologizes when Wormtail raises his little head to smell her hands. Well, that’s something else she can do for next full moon, she guesses. Every time she comes down here is an odyssey and she learns something else in the process; it’s like an on-going experiment. Of course, she pushes that thought away immediately--this is nothing like an experiment for Lupin. She’d be careful not to say something like that in front of him. 

“So, how was it tonight? Is Remus alright? Are any of you inured?” 

Wormtail keeps looking around and smelling her hands, the glove and everything else, to sink in his surroundings, without giving Lily any answers. He could at least write something down on the floor, she scowls mentally. Or change back into a human, but she knows he doesn’t because he’d show up star naked--and then her robe would do him no good. 

“Well, tell me--what can you possibly do all night with a werewolf? A rat, a deer and a dog, with a werewolf. Quite the company, isn’t it?”  
Just to forget about the cold and to have some distraction, Lily keeps talking for the next few minutes. A monologue, pretty much--she now and then asks Peter some questions, but she gets no understandable answer from him. Perhaps she should spend some more time with the Marauders in their Animagi forms in order to be able to properly communicate with them. They seem to understand each other perfectly and act in amazing coordination even when they’re in their animals forms, unable to communicate with simple and natural words. She could at least do the effort--these guys have become illegal Animagi before turning of age. 

“Lils?” she’s interrupted all of a sudden. “What’re you doing here?” 

She looks up to see James and Sirius few feet before her, in their human forms. She peaks above their shoulders to make sure the Whomping Willow’s immobilized at the moment, and that they four are safely away from the tree in any case. Only then does her attention return to the two boys. Apart from extremely tired, they look alright--no severe injuries that she can see. They haven’t bothered dressing up correctly with their School uniforms, reason why they’re shivering--or perhaps they’re just missing the warmth their fur offers them at night. 

“Morning,” she greets finally, standing to hand them two of the blankets she brought for the boys. They thank her and take them immediately, putting them on as robes, above their shoulders. “What’re you doing out here?” 

“Well, we saw you standing here for more than half an hour--wanted to check everything’s alright.” 

“It is, yeah. I was just waiting for you guys to give me the green light,” she answers, looking down at Wormtail again, still comfy inside her glove. “Peter stopped me before I got into the passageway and I was just killing time.” 

She doesn’t get an answer to her words this time and after half an hour of talking non-stop all alone without anyone to say something back, she turns around a little bit angry and pissed off. She understands they’re tired and can’t expect their wit or sass this morning, but she does demand a bit of respect and human interaction--until she sees James and Sirius dumbfounded faces and her anger vanishes. 

“I--I did what you said. If Peter came outside to stop me, it meant I was too early and should wait for a while before entering the passageway.” 

The two boys share one long look that Lily can’t decipher, before James clears his throat in embarrassment, apparently, and Sirius drops his head--in the hopes that Lily won’t see his face clearly. 

“And we’re glad that you listened to and followed our instructions,” promises James carefully--Lily can already hear the ‘but’ coming in, “but that’s not Wormtail.” 

That’s the stupidest thing Lily’s heard all day--and it’s not even six o’clock yet. She frowns and looks back at the rat to her feet, who’s found his home inside one of her gloves. She needs only two seconds to realize James and Sirius aren’t playing a joke on her this time and that she made a terrible, horrible mistake. 

“As a matter of fact,” adds Sirius, taking a rat from his pocket, one that’s obviously Peter this time, “ _we_ had Wormtail.” 

Lily has a hard time finding words to express her shame and horror. 

“Please tell me I haven’t been speaking to a simple rat this whole time,” she begs. “Tell me that I haven’t given up one of my gloves to house a filthy rat!” 

James chuckles at her horror and steps forward, caressing Lily’s cheek while he passes by his girlfriend and heads for the glove on the ground. He grabs it, with more tender than Lily’s comfortable with, and takes the rat out. He fights being out in the cold again, of course, but the animal can do little against a human. James holds the glove like a prize of a thriathlon and kneels again to place the rat on the ground. At first the animal doesn’t budge, but James pulls him gently a couple times and then the rat hurries off, soon enough vanishing into the dark. His smug expression already plastered on his lips again, James returns to his friends, handing Lily her glove with a bow. 

“Problem solved,” he says. 

“Not quite,” scowls Lily, still pondering if grabbing a hold of the glove or not. “He should have kept it.” 

“Don’t exaggerate,” begs James. “We’ll wash it for you if you need.” 

Still upset, Lily puts away the glove by stuffing it inside of her robes’ pocket, and chooses to change the subject, addressing the real Wormtail, who’s resting now on Sirius’ left shoulder. 

“Well, hello, Peter.” 

Wormtail stretches as much as he can, trying to be closer, and nods at her. That’s the kind of answer she should have expected, she knows that now. Had she payed attention before, she wouldn’t have embarrassed herself in front of the Marauders. 

“So? How was it?” she asks, expecting an answer this time. 

“Better than other nights,” promises Sirius. For once, Lily can tell he’s not lying or downsizing things for her. 

“And. . . Moony?” she insists. 

“Well, he’s had much worse transformations, that’s for sure,” adds James. This second cryptic answer on a row almost gets Lily scolding the two boys, but she refrains from doing so. That’s the best they can come up with--they certainly can’t tell her that Remus is alright, or that he’ll be able to attend all of his classes today. 

“Is it too early to see him?” 

“No, he’s probably conscious already,” says James. 

He offers Lily his arm and she takes it to head for the passageway, followed by Sirius carrying Peter, still in his animagus form. Of course, there’s still the small detail of the Whomping Willow, which James solves with a wave of his hand and a non-verbal spell. Considering how tired he looks, he achieves quite the feat--only to impress her. 

Once inside the passageway, everyone pulls out their wands and cast the Lumos spell, since it’s pitch dark down here. James steps forward to be in front of Lily, just in case they’re wrong about the hour, and Sirius kneels to let Wormtail on the floor. He apparently knows what to do, because he hurries off down the passageway, vanishing from their wands’ light, and soon enough they can’t hear him anymore. Lily knows that in a place as big as this one, in the darkness, they wouldn’t be able to find Peter again unless he himself showed up back in front of them. 

James leads the way, fighting the urge to keep side by side with Lily and holding her hand--there are more pressing matters at the moment. Sirius finishes the entourage, having, as usual, Lily’s six. 

Once more, Lily’s surprised by the length of the passageway. She knows it leads to the Shrieking Shack in Hogsmeade, but still this feels like a longer journey than the usual path all the students take to the small village--perhaps it’s the tiredness, the cold, or the darkness. None of it makes this trip as pleasant and beautiful as the open road across the fields between Hogwarts and Hogsmeade. Furthermore, the worst is the final part, where the tunnel begins to raise and it’s uphill till the Shrieking Shack; it’s even difficult for her, clumsy and sleepy--she soon realizes Sirius and James have both fallen behind and slows down her pace. 

Finally they reach the destroyed, haunted, old house, the broken windows letting in some light from the outside--and yet she’s the last one to see Wormtail. He’s waiting in front of a room, probably the only one with a door that closes properly. Upon seeing them, he steps into the room and comes back a few seconds later, as Peter, dressed in his School robes, shutting the door. 

“He’s awake,” he reports in a whisper. “Exhausted, but alright, I think.” 

They all nod in response and Lily’s the first one to step towards the door--although she stops before turning the doorknob. She knows this is quite difficult and intimate for Remus and doesn’t wish to make things harder for the boy. But the three Marauders encourage her by nodding their heads and, taking in a very deep breath of air, Lily enters the room. 

She finds the boy laying on the floor, even though there’s a half-destroyed bed on the room, covered with a simple bed sheet. Lily immediately kneels by Remus’ side, trying her best not to injure him further, dropping her bag to the floor and running a quick examination on him. He’s got some minor cuts on the arms, shoulders, lower legs and face, from what she can see that’s not covered behind the sheet. Those will all heal in a couple of days, luckily. 

“Morning, Remus. It’s Lily,” she greets him, speaking as they taught her, slowly, tenderly and without raising her voice too much. 

Remus opens his eyes upon hearing a female’s voice. Despite this impossible situation, he smiles at Lily--and then he sees the other three boys standing behind Lily. Every time he finds them here in the Shrieking Shack after one of his transformations he’s even more appalled, disturbed and dumbfounded. There are a hundred reasons why none of them should be here. But he’s not going to list them now. 

“Hello,” he manages to utter, his voice barely a whisper. 

“Can you move your fingers for me?” asks Lily. She knows asking this of him right now is just torture, but sooner or later Madame Pomfrey would order him to do so either way, so Remus just takes a shaky breath, closes his eyes and performs the check-up Lily demands of him: moving his ten fingers and toes, his wrists and ankles, his neck, proving that he’s got no severe spinal injury. 

“You should probably check his left arm,” says James. 

“What the hell did you do to him?” hisses Lily, looking up at her boyfriend with hatred. The boy doesn’t answer, but scratches the back of his neck with the appropriate amount of embarrassment--and Peter and Sirius don’t dare to explain things to her either. 

Giving up on getting answers, Lily draws the bed sheet down to Remus’ chest and checks that left arm the way she was taught to, first the observation exam--now she notices a slight swallowing of the left forearm, compared to the right one--and then a slight poking up and down the arm to check for the most severe injured areas. Remus doesn’t complain much through the examination, although he’s quite out of it, to be honest, and he says he can ‘barely’ feel Lily’s touch. In the end she lets his arm on the floor again, ever so carefully. 

“Well, it’s not broken,” she scowls, glaring again at James, Peter and Sirius, “but there _is_ a fracture for sure. James, hand me the painkiller potion and the bandages--and Sirius, get the canteen.” 

Both boys move at the same time towards Lily’s bag, which, prepared beforehand with an Undetectable Extension Charm, is full with items she deemed necessary for both Lupin and the other Marauders--although she’ll remember to bring food next time. They use the Summoning Charm in order to get what Lily demanded and avoid scavenge her belongings. 

“You meant the Calendula potion?” asks James, reading the label on the potion on his hands. 

“Yes, James,” says Lily, tired voice--he should know this by now. “Make Remus drink it along with a sip of water. It’ll null the pain.” 

By the time she turns around James is on the other side of Remus, one hand behind his neck, and they both help Remus half-stand so he can drink a few sips of water. Afterwards they let him lay on the floor with the same tender as before. 

“It should act within a few minutes,” she says. “Now--” 

Sirius hands her the bandages before she has to ask for them. Lily sets to work in silence and efficiently, now and then asking Sirius’ help to hold Remus’ arm or to make the bandages go around Remus’ neck, because the patient’s just too out of it to contribute at all. Luckily, there are more than enough volunteers and less than five minutes later, his arm is securely immobilized in a sling. But they are long from over, and so Lily leans forward, after Sirius and Peter helped him to some more water. 

“Do you mind if--?” 

“Go ahead,” says Remus before Lily finishes the question. He’s been treated by Madame Pomfrey about eight times a year for the past six years, he knows the drill only too well and he’s way past embarrasment and shame. 

Upon Remus’ acceptance, Lily draws away the sheet covering Remus’ body. She’s very relieved to see he hasn’t suffered either any major injuries on his chest, stomach or upper legs--they’ve told her about some of his worst nights at Hogwarts and she really didn’t want to treat a broken bone or a dismembered limb. Without losing focus, she picks up her bag again and grabs two salves of Murtlap Essence and two more of Dittany, handing them amongst the Marauders. 

“Moony--” Padfoot tries to warn their friend. 

“Just do it,” begs Remus. The sooner they start, the sooner they’ll be finished. 

Peter and Sirisu treat every wound with the Murtlap essence, from head to toes, in order to soothe the pain from the injuries, and immediately afterwards, James and Lily apply the Dittany slave, a healing and restorating herb that closes the wounds and will partially heal all of the scars he's sustained--leaving James to take care of the most intimate areas. Then they cover Remus with the bed sheet again and wait for some minutes, all seated around Remus’ body, until the wounds look much better, in the mends of a full recovery--and judging by Remus’ face, he does feel better after the treatment. Only when she makes sure of it does Lily recollect the potions and helps Remus drink some more water. By then, Sirius has found the couple more blankets she had in the bag and James has conjured a stretcher a couple feet from Remus. 

Making sure Lupin’s well wrapped-up in the blankets, they collectively use the Levitating Charm to let Remus rest on the stretcher and be able to carry him to the Castle without risking re-opening his injuries or hurting him in the process. Honestly, Lily doesn’t even want to know what kind of help could the Marauders provide Remus when they didn’t know half the Magic they know nowadays. 

The trip back is way better than the way out, for everyone, now that they’ve got Remus safe and sound with them, already resting on the stretcher, warm and, one could say, almost comfortable. They’re more relaxed, the enough to engage a quite conversation concerning the days’ schedules and the subjects they can skip without falling behind their syllabus, bearing in mind their NEWTs and that they need to take notes on Remus’s behalf so he doesn’t fall behind either. 

Beating the Whomping Willow isn’t that much of a deal for neither of them, even with carrying a stretcher magically with them--Peter’s the one to immobilize the tree this time. But they do come to a halt when they see the school nurse crossing the fields towards them at the fastest pace her short legs allow her. They meet her halfway, in the middle of the fields, dropping the stretcher so she can re-examine Lupins’s state. 

“See you beat me to it once again,” says the nurse with heavy breathing--she’s tried to run all the way down. 

“We woke up very early,” replies James with a polite smile. 

“Just wanted to be there for him,” adds Peter. 

“Perhaps, ma’am, you could just wait upstairs in the infirmary for us to bring him in,” says Sirius and by the sound of it, it’s not the first time they suggest so to her. She squints at Padfoot--proving that her calling is right and that she’d like to be with her patient as soon as humanly possible. 

“Perhaps I will stay by the fire while you three do all the hard work,” she says, when her tone clearly indicates she will do nothing of that sort. Then she sees Lily standing there as well. “Sorry, should have said, you four.” 

Nodding a few times, not enough interested nor suspicious to interrogate the Marauders any further, Madame Pomfrey steps to one side, pointing at the Castle with a motion of her head. 

“Well, let’s not just stay out here and catch a cold,” she scowls. 

They all nod in response, but let her lead the entourage, out of consideration--but behind the woman, the Marauders exchange tired, exasperated and mildly annoyed looks. Ever since they started joining Lupin in his transformations, they’ve been trying to get Madame Pomfrey to stop going down to the Shrieking Shack to fetch her patient--to no avail. If she didn’t insist in coming, they could use one of the multiple alternative ways to the infirmary the boys know, a route that’d save them all at least five minutes of walking through the empty and cold Castle till they reach someplace warmed up by a fireplace. Lily wishes Madame Pomfrey would, by some miracle, listen to them and let them take care of Moony, at least till they bring them up to the infirmary--she just hopes that with her medical knowledge they’ll be able to spare the nurse’s early visits in the near future. Not only would they save a lot of time, but they’d allow Remus to rest in a comfortable bed sooner and faster than the nurse can offer him. But heck, it’s not like they can show Madame Pomfrey the secret passageways, nor how did they find out about those thanks to their Map. 

In the end, however, they make it to the infirmary, one way or another. The four of them finally stop shivering when they step into a room warmth by a fire and breathe much easier once they can settle Remus on a proper best so he can start recovering--the boy barely notices the change and doesn’t even open his eyes completely, too out of it thanks to the drugs Lily’s given him. Only when Remus is already being checked out by Madame Pomfrey do Pads, Wormtail and Prongs step aside and sit on the closest bed, wishing to get some sleep too. Lily stands, staying close to the nurse and the patient, in case she misenterpreted something in her evaluation, but the other Marauders give them some space and time, confident that Lily’s assesment was on point. And they’re proven right after less than one minute of examination by the nurse. 

“Very nicely done indeed, Miss Evans,” is the nurse’s evaluation results. “I don’t think I could have done it any better. Perhaps I will stay indoors next time till you bring poor Mr. Lupin in.” 

“Wow, that’s one hell of a praise,” Sirius remarks, raising his eyebrows at Lily. If she’s the one who manages to keep Madame Pomfrey up at the infirmary while they take care of Remus in the morning, she deserves all the praise in the world. 

“Thank you, ma’am. Just giving a hand out,” says Lily, blushing slightly. 

“St. Mungo’s will be lucky to have you, Miss Evans,” adds Madame Pomfrey, as she draws the curtains around Remus’ bed. Thankfully to Lily, she changes subject before Lily’s forced to give any answer to the nurse’s words--she scowls again upon taking a brief look at the three boys. “By Merlin, you look worse than poor Mr. Lupin. Take off those cold clothes immediately and sit by the fire while I prepare some tea.” 

She thought the boys would want nothing but what she offered, but after some long seconds, none of them has managed to budge one finger off the bed. Madame Pomfrey sighs deeply and without a word heads for her desk. 

“Come on,” orders Lily softly. 

She grabs James by the arm to make him stand. James’ movement prompts Sirius’, and then Lily only has to coax Peter into leaving the bed. Once she's got them all on their feet it's easier to coax them towards the chimney--they're all shivering and in the need fo warm. Luckily they're not that asleep as not to realize that they should take off the cold blankets and robes they were wearing, and hang them onto the curtains. Just in case, Lily makes sure James does take his robes off by doing so herself, even before she’s taken care of her coat. 

“Why, Evans--” grins James, tilting his head to one side. 

“Not a word. And hands off,” she scowls. 

Ever since she agreed to go out with James--biggest mistake she's ever made--she's found out James is always more than ready for her and willing. Sometimes, even, is difficult to keep him at arm's length--but he knows he's risking his neck if he oversteps, just like now, and so he retreats slowly and silently. 

“If you’ve got strength to speak, you can take your clothes off by yourself,” she says in the end. James understands the implicit order and proceeds to unbutton his robes and hang them from the chair with impressive speed. 

Just a few minutes later their muscles finally relax with the warmth of the fire, their fingers are recovering a natural pinkish color thanks to the mugs they’re holding as if their lives depended on it, and their stomachs have settled a bit thanks to the warm tea. Overall, they’re much better. And hence, other preoccupations hit them. They leave the mugs on the floor and turn towards the nurse, who was writing on some parchments. 

“Tell us the truth, please, ma’am,” begs Sirius. 

“How’s he?” demands James. 

“Is he going to be alright?” presses Peter. 

Madame Pomfrey, without actually looking away from the piece of parchment on her desk, sends them a comforting smile--one of the calmest and more reassuring ones she’s given them in the past seven years, which is saying a lot, considering she’s got mastered the liar smile, as they call it. 

“Better than most full moon nights,” she says, words that they all believe. “Now, if you’ve finished your tea, I recommend you go down to the Great Hall and have a full breakfast. I will not have you skipping any classes just because you woke up early, or because you’re worried about your friend--I can take good care of him, or so I’m told. Eggs, toasts, sausages and bacon would be nice for you four, I think.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” accepts James, standing from his chair and picking up his robes. 

“Thank you for everything,” adds Sirius. 

“Have a lovely day,” says Lily. 

“We’ll be back later today,” finishes Peter, everyone following James’s suit. 

“Not before your classes are finished, I hope?” demands the nurse. 

They don’t answer, which all in all, represents an answer in itself--Madame Pomfrey rolls her eyes and sits behind her desk again, grabbing her quill and parchment. The Marauders file down the infirmary, slowing their pace in purpose as they pass by Remus’ bed, to peek behind the curtain. The boy is sound asleep and he looks more at peace than most of the transformations they’ve seen him go through. Seeing him like that finally allows them four to breathe in deeply, most of their worries forgotten now. 

“Do you need something else?” demands the nurse, cold voice, from her desk. Realizing they weren’t as discreet as they'd hoped, they apologize and hurriedly leave the infirmary. 

Their classmates also notice they’ve been up to something tonight, considering how exhausted they all look, but no one mentions it out loud and let them eat in peace the full breakfast Madame Pomfrey recommended and that they desperately need to regain energy. Their Gryffindor classmates also give them a hand to survive throughout the day. Marlene knocks Lily awake when she was about to fall asleep during Defense Against the Dark Arts class. Frank, as he passes by his cauldron, mentions that James has been stirring his potion for at least ten more minutes than necessary--and the warning comes right on time, Sirius is just able to fix it and spares James from doing the potion from scratch. Alice helps out Peter performing the Summoning Spell non-verbally in order to save him from detention, since it was homework mastering said Charm for today’s class, and furthermore accepts tutoring him in the next few days should he need the assistance. 

True to their unspoken word, when the Marauders come back to the infirmary again is late in the evening, after they’ve finished all their classes for the day--they wanted to come up during lunch hour, but deemed it was better to take a short nap and don’t get a detention from Minerva for falling asleep in her class. 

Now, when they come back to the infirmary, it looks as if their roles are reversed: Remus is awake, talkative, and he isn’t sustaining major injuries, and Peter, James, Lily and Sirius are the ones exhausted, who can barely do much else apart from sitting on empty chairs and beds surrounding Remus’ bed. On the other hand, Remus, as soon as they’ve settled down and they’re close enough, he demands at once their notes, textbooks and a report on the homework and classes he’s missed. They comply, groaning due to tiredness while they rummage their school bags, their textbooks and rumpled notes of the day, but happy and relieved deep down, hiding their grins before their best friend. Looks like this time, Remus’ recovery won’t take more than a couple of days, tops. They guess Remus probably wanted to assist some of today’s lectures too, since he’s attempted to assist in DADA and Transfiguration lectures before when he was in much worse state than he is now, but couldn’t because of Madame Pomfrey--she might have tied him or nailed him to the bed, actually. Guessing seeing Remus like this, and getting such good news from the nurse, was reassuring for Mr. and Mrs. Lupin too, when they came earlier today to check on their son, like they do on every full moon night since Remus’ first year. 

What with the fire lit behind the nurse’s desk, the comfy beds and chairs, and the almost complete silence broken only by Remus and Madame Pomfrey writing on parchments, the four don’t need more than five minutes to fall asleep--and Remus is the one who keeps an eye open this time, doing his homework with an incredulous smile on his lips. He doesn’t a have a heart anymore to keep fighting his friends about not joining him in their Animagi forms and helping him further afterwards in any way they can. It is true he’s had some of the best transformations he remembers--quick, somehow painless, and most specially, fun. He doesn’t know what he’d do without the lot of them.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The class of '77 graduation day brings more than one pleasant surprise to the Hogwarts staff and scholars...

The seventeen-year-old-almost-to-be-graduated girl descends the stairs two at a time, feeling anxious despite having no real reason to. At the Common Room, all of her friends seem to be every bit as nervous as she is--thankfully, the Marauders' presence enlightens the mood, as she could hear bursts of laughter from the seventh floor girl’s dormitory. 

Marlene sees her first and hugs her from the shoulders, more thrilled than should be possible. 

"Finally!! Today's the day!!"

Hanging from her neck, they approach their friends' group, who are chatting easily, cheerfully, contradictory to her current gloomy mood. Though seconds later she notices, as it probably should have occurred to her earlier, several canteens passing by. 

"Is there alcohol in there?" she asks. A question that is met by several scoffs and rolls of eyes. 

"Evans, please, you stopped being the pain in the ass Head Girl three days ago," scowls Sirius, drinking mindlessly. "Quit and desist whenever you want." 

"I only asked because if there is, I want some," she replies. And now her sentence is met by dazzled looks and some chuckles, but thankfully, one of the canteens comes her way. 

But she never grabs a hold of it, as another hand appears from behind her and takes it before she does, at the same time when another arm wraps her by the waist and James rests his head on her shoulder. 

"Good morning," she whispers, leaning into him. 

He moans and drops his head to gently bite her neck. "Can't wait to hear that every morning at our own place."

"Dreaming big, huh?" asks Lily, cocking her head to allow him better access. 

"As usual," agrees James. He breaks the kiss and raises the canteen, then moving it away from Lily's reach. 

"Why, Evans, need your courage for something?" he asks, and by his voice she knows he's grinning wickedly. 

"You know I do," whispers Lily, having a hard time remembering why she was feeling nervous at all. 

James chuckles and offers the canteen to Marlene, who understands the proposition and discreetly swifts away. James makes Lily turn in a whirl so she's facing him and kisses her deeply, easily finding his way into her mouth and taste her tongue. Within seconds, Lily can no longer remember why are they all gathered here or what are they supposed to do in only a few minutes. 

"Still nervous?" asks James when they break the kiss. 

"Not at all," replies her with a shy smile. 

"You know what comes next, right?"

"Graduating, I hope?" she says. 

James doesn't confirm nor deny the statement, mainly because Marlene comes back to drag her out of the Common Room, and James behind her, as he doesn't let go of her wrist. But the fact that he didn't answer her question frightens her; refusing to respond still is James' favorite way of getting away with lying to her. 

There’s an unbelievable racket down at the Entrance Hall. Old and new students, all dressed in robes, teachers, parents and other family members, are present to this day. Though on their case, both Lily’s and Sirius’ parents are missing, Euphemia Potter being the only one who’s present on behalf the three of them; the results of the omnipresent War. Remus’ both parents are here, and Peter’s got a personal committee, as his four sisters, mother and grandmother are present today. 

All of a sudden Lily realizes the Entrance Hall is way overly crowded because no one's entered the Dining Hall yet, breaking the usual protocol, which consists in the visitors waiting there for the arrival of the graduated to be students. 

Before she can turn around to express her surprise to James, something else catches her eye. Up there on the roof has appeared what seems to be a gigantic parchment, wide enough to reach both walls. In that instant she knows the Marauders are up to something--and so does everyone else. She scoffs, arms crossed; everyone surrounding her, including a treacherous Marlene, awaits in expectation. Some seconds later, words start to appear on the parchment. 

 

_Class of '77: congratulations! We did it, we're graduating Hogwarts. Miraculously on some cases--sorry, Peter, you know that's you. But instead of bidding farewell and promising to keep in touch when we're all fully aware we have no intention of doing so, let's move on to today's big event. Please give a round of applause to our host for today: James We're-not-adding-my-middle-name-cause-this-is-serious Potter!!_

 

Used by this point to those four's mischiefs, everyone starts clapping and cheering, awaiting eagerly today’s show. Lily turns around to tiredly ask what are they up to now only to find out her boyfriend's no longer beside her. 

He's easy to find, however. Using some spell to copy a muggle's spotlight, one of the Marauder's lights him up. He's on the top of the stairs, his wand pointed at his throat, making sure each person present can hear him loud and clear. And after his first words, she wishes she was deaf. Or any other place in the world but this one. 

"Ladies and gentlemen. You've been witnesses of an extraordinary story between two amazingly bright, gorgeous and brilliant young wizards."

"You're making me blush, Prongs," shouts Sirius from somewhere in the Hall, causing some people to chuckle. 

"Please behold," resumes James as though nothing had happened. "Their story." 

He raises his wand and everyone looks up to the ceiling. The windows shut, the lights dim, they're almost in the darkness. For a second Lily fears something bad is going to happen, since the War leaves behind an inevitable and permanent fear in everyone, and she knows she's not the only one, until a single picture appears in the darkness. 

A picture of her at the Hogwarts grounds. In a bittersweet emotional wave she stares at herself six years younger, much shorter hair, her traits those of a child, her body still not developed yet. But she recognizes the scene, though, and realizes it's a memory. James' memory. It is strange to see this through somebody else's point of view. Her words back then echo in the quiet Hall, insulting James on the worst language she knew back then, some very feeble words. But she did promise she'd transform him into the disgusting cockroach he was if he didn't stop bothering her. And she did maintain her word, though only last year, on a bet with the Marauders. 

As if someone had read her mind, those same words appear on a new parchment beside the memory. She thanks the darkness of the Hall as everyone laughs, cheers and claps at her. 

"Planning to make a fool of yourself, James?" shouts someone from the audience. 

"He's reached that point already," replies someone else. 

Another memory appears, still from first year, followed by another, and a third one, and a fourth, till there are too many memories displayed on the ceiling. It truly seems like a muggle movie, as if… Magic. Trust the Marauders to exploit a Pensieve's utilities to this massive point. Maybe the Headmaster himself helped them, it seems quite the incredible show. And maybe he even lend them his own Pensieve--who knows, with a man such as Albus Dumbledore. 

She forces herself to forget the practical side of the prank--or so she hopes--and truly admire, as she reluctantly has to admit to doing often enough with those four, their show. It's basically a summary of hers and James' history throughout their years at Hogwarts. Flying lessons, Potions, detentions, visits to the Headmaster's office, the fourth's year ball gown, Christmases, birthdays, even the funerals of their parents, that time they met at Diagon Alley randomly last summer--the first time she ever thought of him as boyfriend material and, apparently, that went both ways--, them sharing Head Boy and Girl dormitories, the two of them in a date-it’s-not-a-real-date-between-friends at Hogsmeade, the first time they shared his bed, even before they had any kind of sexual relationship. 

There’s this one particular memory starring Padfoot, Moony and Wormtail, where James confessed being absolutely in love with her--back in third year, she estimates--but guessing that she wanted him dead rather. 

"I'm guessing the feeling persists right now," comments Remus somewhere in a chuckle. 

She can't help adding her part too. " _Indeed it is,_ " she agrees, causing some more laughter, though on the other side now everyone's found out where she is, and a small circle forms around her, knowing she’s today’s spotlight too. Thankfully, their attention’s too caught on with the strange movie displaying on the ceiling. 

She thanks the Lord for being way too many memories showing at the same time so no-one, not even herself, the protagonist of them all, can keep track of them--she's lucky to place them all in time. Finally the movie ends and James reappears at one of the highest Hall's windowsill, a clear and bright spotlight on him. 

"And yet, here we are now, dating as boyfriend and girlfriend."

"Another miracle, huh, James?" asks some girl several feet away from Lily. 

"How much do you pay her monthly so she keeps that lie?"

James disappears and in one instant he's again at the top of the stairs. That speed can only mean he's just Apparated--something he could only do if the Headmaster himself pulled down the enchantment preventing it. Great. The staff's aware of this too and agreed to it. 

"Lily Evans," shouts James. "That was a partial sample of the moments we've spent together. I want to fill a castle with endless blissful memories of the two of us. So please," next second he's at the bottom of the stairs, a few steps from her, and as another spotlight coming from Merlin knows where lightens her, everyone steps back to leave the both of them the stage. "Please, Lily Evans, will you make me the absolute happiest man on this Universe? Will you become Lily Evans Potter?"

With his last question he's dropped one knee to the floor, grabbing Lily's hand and kissing her chuckles lightly. Obviously he had to do this big gesture in front of the school. The audience, knowing somewhere nearby stands the staff, Severus and her friends, stops her from scoffing or saying the truly inappropriate things that are running though her mind.

"You can't say no," reminds James with a grin, cocking his head as he expects her answer. 

"Figures," she scowls under her breath. "Yes, James _Fleamont_ Potter, I will marry you."

She was prepared for James' reaction, whose jump almost sends him up to the ceiling, but wasn't expecting the outburst of joy, cheering and applause by all the audience. It closes around them both, in a multitudinous hug, as she receives congratulations by all. The Marauders are singing and dancing around them, some fireworks set off, Marlene's almost crying; a bit over the top. But she does get a warm hug from Euphemia Potter.

"It'll be so nice to have you as a formal daughter finally," she says. "You've made me so, so happy, Lily, really, thank you. And you," she adds more sternly turning to face an overly cheerful James. "Why didn't you tell me this sooner? Where's the ring?"

"Calm down, Mom, we only decided two days ago. And I wanted to give her the family ring, so I couldn't exactly go home and fetch it, with everything going on here." 

"Well, never mind. We have to get down to planning right away. You could get married at the Potter Manor, we can decorate the garden, it'll be magnificent. And the guest list! Lily, dear, you'll have to tell me how many guests you'll be inviting to send the cards."

"Of course, Euphemia."

"From now on you'll call me Mom, is that clear, dear? Euphemia was too formal from the beginning. Sirius, here you are. You'll be on charge of one thing only: teach this son of mine to dance. I've let him get away with it all throughout our ball gowns, but his wedding is something else altogether."

"I can deal with much more than that, but I'll see to it, Mom; he’ll be a pro when I’m finished with him."

"Remus, please, you'll have to do me this kindness and check Sirius' best man's toast so it's apt for everyone at the wedding. And we'll see the wedding isn't too close to the full moon, don't worry about that." 

"Was planning on doing exactly that since James named Sirius his best man. And thank you for your consideration, ma’am."

"Peter, your calligraphy will be marvelous for the wedding invitations."

"I'll be honored, Euphemia."

"Mom," says James, noticing they're getting a little bit ahead of themselves. For now, Prof. McGonagall's ordering everyone to file into the Dining Hall, now that the show's over and they can get on with today's usual events. "We both appreciate your eagerness, but we still have some academic duties first. Do you mind--?"

"Oh, yes, of course, sorry. I'll see you both later." And she disappears before any of them can say anything. 

"Merlin," scowls Lily, knowing her face is the same color of her hair. Thankfully, the procedure indicates that the students graduating today be the last ones to enter the Dining Hall, so she's still got some minutes left. "Padfoot, do you have that canteen?" 

"Why, Evans--"

"I have to stand in front of everyone and make a speech after what you've pulled. Quit your jokes and give it to me, right this second-- _I need it_ ," she orders sharply. 

With a chuckle, Sirius takes it from one of the robes' pockets. Lily notices that thankfully it's almost full--and hands it over nearly empty. Marlene, the one who grabs it, isn't the only one who notices this with fear. James makes her turn and grabs both sides of her face to look at her intently in the eye. 

"This is what you wanted, right? To get married?"

Noticing his worry, Lily smiles briefly, taking his hands off her face. "Yes, James, we did agree to get married. Only, I wished you'd skip all this."

"What did you expect, coming from a Marauder?" replies Peter, winking at her. 

"But we're good?" insists James, bending his knees to be eye level with Lily. 

"Of course, James. The thing--I've just lost my family and--"

"Wrong," interjects Remus, hugging her from the shoulders. "It diminished, but you earned a new family from the day James first set his eyes on you. I'll forever be sorry for your losses, but I think you managed. Just let him have this--it really couldn't have been any other way." 

"So, it's not really appropriate to say "welcome to the family", seeing you've been an unofficial Potter since you don't even know when, but I have to say, it'll be grant to have a real, big sister," says Sirius, hugging her and leaning to kiss her gently on the cheek.

"Hey, watch your hands. She's taken already," demands James, pushing his brother mockingly.

"I see no ring. And no wedding vows nor certificate. So, she's still free and non-committed," replies Padfoot, though he would never do anything to insult Lily or dared to break them up. It's taken enough time, sweat and tears to get them together to mess it all up now. 

Overwhelmed by everything, Lily almost thanks that Professor Minerva asks for the students to get ready for the ceremony. Slowly, they start entering the Dining Hall, surrounded by what it truly is her family, who, unaware of her thoughts, are still bickering and mocking around as they find their spots in the crowd. 

But she's in no way ready to deliver her speech. Se wanted to be concise about the ever present War, the need to stand on the right side, to fight for what's right even if it's the hardest thing to do at a crossroad. But knowing what everyone's thinking while looking at her and James at the stage, she can barely utter half of her speech--and it's received by stupid giggles and scoffs at the wrong parts. James' speech, on the other side, is cheerful, light and funny--exactly what they needed and expected from him.

Afterwards, McGonagall proceeds with the graduating ceremony and her only concern is clapping at her classmates, even known Death Eaters. Only when Severus' name is called does she look away, facing Sirius, at her right, who shoots up a hand to hold her wrist, to hold her in place and give her comfort. When James, behind her, arm around her shoulders, scowls "Git," under his breath, she understands Severus hasn't even bothered to look her way, or look for her in the crowd. She only breaths freely when Sirius forces a smile at her and James is visibly more relaxed, caressing her shoulders. 

She and James, as former Head Girl and Boy, are the last ones to be called on stage. James takes way too long speaking with Minerva while she's already with her friends and family enjoying the moment and thanking the end of every Head Girl duty, and she wishes she could hear what they're saying, but the racket of families and students' just too loud. 

"I'm afraid I cannot truly congratulate any of you, Mr. Potter," replies Minerva. "We haven't taught students; we've trained soldiers. All of you here graduating today are only pawns to a War you shouldn't take any part on."

"You taught what we needed you to teach us," replies James. "Every defensive and counteractive spell we need to stay alive. And the sooner we get over this War, the sooner we'll get on with our lives." 

"Sounds like a very poor education and some horrible heritage to me."

"Don't be so hard on yourself, Minnie. You arose to the needs of your students. I think that would qualify you all as competent teachers and tutors. I'm not complaining about the education you've given us."

"It wasn't exactly the perfect teaching method or training curriculum."

"Nobody's perfect," grins James. 

"In any case, Mr. Potter, I can congratulate you on your engagement," resumes McGonagall. "I must say we were missing some happiness around here." 

"Thank you, Minnie. And we'd be honored if you'd be kind enough to attend our wedding," he says, leaning to kiss her hand gently.

"Such manners," scowls McGonagall. "I wish they would have shown sometime during these past years."

"Aw, Minnie. It's over now, you can admit you enjoyed our pranks."

"As your teacher, I couldn't say that, but since you're no longer my pupils… I can admit that some of the things you pulled off were quite a show. It made us quite proud to see you all using the spells we thought you never listened while we explained them at class."

"Minnie, that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me. And since we're being honest here, I'll confess often enough we did not listened to your lectures. But one more thing." 

He leans forward to whisper something right into McGonagall's ear. Whatever it is, their former Head of House rolls her eyes and laughs at the same time before James kneels once more to kiss her hand before leaving the stage and joins his small family members, hugging Lily from the shoulders, all of them who're still high on graduating joy and, probably, booze. 

"What was that all about?" 

"Just making peace," replies James, kissing her on the lips. "Saying we'll be seeing each other soon enough."

"She accept to go to your wedding?" asks Peter.

James nods his head solemnly and though not another word is exchanged, they all know what Minnie and James are referring to: the Order. They still have some duties towards their former Head of House, maybe not as students anymore, but as adults defending what they believe in. Even if it'll lead to a War they're in no way ready for.

"She also congratulated us on becoming fiancées," he adds in a more joyful voice, breaking the frozen ice.

" _Did you have to use that word?_ " whines Lily, a slight shiver running down her body. 

"Are you kidding? He wanted to say that ever since September 1st, 1972," Sirius scoffs. 

"Can any of you believe it's already been seven years?" asks Alice. 

"Actually I can. It hasn't exactly been a picnic with these four," scowls Lily, signaling at James, Peter, Remus and Sirius with a nod of her head. 

"Speaking of which," says Sirius, checking his watch, so used to Lily's remarks that he barely notices them. 

"Oh, no, Merlin. What have you planned now?" demands Lily. 

"If you want to know, I suggest we move to a privileged point of view at the top of the exterior stairs," says James, pushing Lily forwards. All the group follows them both, right to the Entrance Hall, stopping at the exterior top steps, where McGonagall, by James' indication, stands close too, secretly excited to see what will they pull now. 

At first all they see is happy families and just graduated students around the courtyard making plans for their future. But then, Peter counts down from ten staring at his watch; when he says "zero", there's a mild explosion, though some people tense and instinctively reach for their wands, including Lily and Alice despite having been aware something was going to happen, but there's no danger. 

Only, four comets of four different colors--green, blue, yellow and red--raise high in the sky and form four gigantic figures on the courtyard, as tall to reach the third floor windows. It's easy to recognize them, even if no-one had ever seen their portraits on the school walls, given their dresses match their house's colors: the founding fathers, Rowena Ravenclaw, Helena hufflepuff, Salazar Slytherin and Godric Gryffindor, all of them holding hands in a circle around the fountain, waving at them all with big smiles, taking off their hats. 

At one point they all turn to the audience, raise their wands and start to sing. Hogwarts' hymn. Students slowly start to sing too, dazzled, cheerful, taken aback--even Lily has a hard time finding the words she knows by hard. They sing and sing until everyone in the courtyard joins for the song before the figures bend to salute them all--in the midst of an amazing outburst of cheers and applause. But that wasn't the end of it: a folklore song starts playing somewhere and the founding fathers join hands again to start dancing. 

Figuring they're not expected to dance as well, some people start filing out of the courtyard, stopping by the Marauders first. 

“Amazing, man.”

“Merlin, these years with all of you here have been a blast. We'll miss you.”

"Thanks. We'll miss our audience too," says James, shaking a students hand, while not releasing his grip on Lily. 

"If all of this ends soon enough, please remember to look for us in Diagon Alley--we'll be opening a shop there."

Lily hits James on the chest at once. "You will not do such thing," she forbids, even when the fifth-year student has promised he'll be keen to remember it. The most important thing, however, is the conditional James had to use. Merlin knows if this War will be over any time soon--or if they'll still be alive after it does.

“You really had to do something today, hadn't you,” whispers Marlene, shaking her head. 

“ _Especially today,_ ” replies Peter with a grin. 

“Come on, it was the last day, did you really expect us to sit tight?” demands Remus with a chuckle.

“Yes, we did, after what you pulled before the graduation,” whines Lily.

“That doesn't count. It was a last-minute addendum, since we only learnt yesterday Lily had agreed to marry this one,” reasons Remus. 

“Explains why I found Frank sleeping at the Common Room couch this morning.”

“ _Seriously? You guys have no boundaries?_ ”

“What can I say, after seven years, I'm used to it. And I didn't want to get the surprise spoilt,” laughs the poor man. 

They join, all the while keep on staring at the sky, where the Founding Fathers are still dancing cheerfully--what has to be their fifth or sixth song by now. Lily leans into James, getting a soft kiss on the hair as a response. 

“Don't think I don't know what you did there.”

“Never thought you'd miss it,” replies him. 

Because in the sky, Salazar Slytherin and Godric Gryffindor are always a couple. By the arm, the hand or any other step, they're never apart. They tried to prove her own point through this magnificent prank, even though it's too subtle for some: they have to stay united. Despite their differences, the Founding Fathers mainly stayed as a stablished group of friends who engaged this castle and proper education for wizard kids. They wouldn't want their pupils to grow apart and discriminate each other. 

No-one wants to engage this War. But it seems there's no other way out.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James and Lily's wedding isn't the joyful family day they'd been hoping for.

She can’t escape. 

She’s trapped with an arm around her shoulders and a firm hand at the small of her back, pulling her close, keeping her at that spot. 

Not that she’s complaining. 

She loves him and he so obviously love her; and lately, snogging around has become their favorite hobby out in public and apt for PG thirteen. All that matters to her right now is her body against his, their lips exploring again the sensations of those mouths they already know by heart, her hands that can’t just rest peacefully but twine their fingers in her husband’s hair, curling it and messing it up worse than it already was. 

A very small, unimportant part of her brain slowly acknowledges something else beyond the man between her arms. And all of a sudden, she comes back to the Earth, remembering the place and time she’s in, remembering the crowd they’re standing before to, noticing the lust way--there’s no other way to describe it--she and James are holding, not letting each other go. 

She blushes and pulls free with a bit of an effort, but nobody, except herself, minds. All the guests are applauding cheerfully at them, cheering, congratulating them, some of them even laughing at Lily’s expense--the loudest, the Marauders, as it couldn’t have been any other way. The four closest to them and the four guests who are bouncing around in joy, chanting some things intelligible over the crowd’s roar, not able to contain their happiness. And in the midst of a War, who’s she to deprive that of them. 

She clears her throat and looks down to fix her dress, a complete stupidity since it’s unnecessarily brand-new, to get some seconds before facing the crowd. James takes her arm steadily, reminding her she’s not alone, and she knows he doesn’t mean just this altar and family occasion, but also for the rest of her life. She’s just linked helplessly to James, his inseparable friends, and his family. 

A fact she loves more than she could say. 

Lily looks up at her husband--a word, in all honesty, she was also waiting expectedly to use already--to thank him all that once more when she sees that irritating though adorable at this point wicked grin on his face, and blushes a bit more. He’d planned for things to turn out this way, for her to just forget about the guests and family and just let go, as usual. Only he can get her hair down this way over and over again. She sighs in frustration, shaking her head as their family surrounds them and congratulates them. He’s just incorrigible. His manners, his sense of timing and decorum; none of it proves he’s actually the heir of one of the most respectable families in the Wizarding World. 

And yet, they are some things she’s come to love. 

Somehow James can read her thoughts and chuckles under his breath. Before hitting him or hurting him in any way, which wouldn’t exactly make the perfect photo wedding--although to some guests gathered here, that would be a hilarious form of proving they are indeed husband and wife now--she turns to her family and friends, thanking them politely, getting in exchange warm, long and caring hugs and wishes of happiness. Euphemia, Minerva, the Marauders, most of Peter’s family, some Order members, some renowned wizards friends of the family and the few remaining friends from Hogwarts are the only guests on their wedding--which is more than she’d feared. She’s tried her best to forget all about Petunia and Severus up to this point. 

She’d guessed that after all there are bound to be some differences between an average muggle wedding and a wizard one. The course of the wedding being one of them, since now, after the ceremony, comes their very first dance as husband and wife. Everyone knows it and starts stepping away from them, to let them plenty of space down the aisle to the dancing area. 

Thankfully, Sirius and James spent a lot of time with her during their preparations for the wedding, filling her in to every detail; making sure she understood and remembered the changes with the weddings she was used to assisting to, making sure she was OK with all of it. It almost became unbearable, but she thanks them both for doing it--after all, it was better to know beforehand that the Daily Prophet would be coming. 

James takes her arm to help her keep balance with her high heels; she grabs him tightly and he covers her hand with his free one, for extra assurance, to get down the couple of steps until solid ground. She breaths in deeply, trying to control her shivering, and focusing again as a calming exercise on the wedding decorations. 

The altar, the aisle and the whole reception and dancing area were transfigured by Sirius, taken from an old Potter’s family photo album with amazingly precision. Except from one small, tiny detail: everything’s painted with gold and red and there’s a Quidditch-based theme anywhere you look at, which almost makes her giggle in a very bad moment. James couldn’t have had it in any other way. He didn’t quite grasp and went overboard with the whole “something old” thing, but it’s marvelous too. 

From the moment she mentioned it some weeks ago, and Sirius had to extract every bit of information about the whole “something new, something old, something blue, something borrowed” muggle tradition out of her mouth, he took upon his personal duty to have it at the wedding. 

“There is an irrepressible need for muggle representation in your wedding,” said Sirius, as if that statement refuted any of Lily’s. 

And it did, actually. James was on board within two seconds and the two of them thought of everything else, but on an unexpectedly broad scale. As in, the something new--since apparently, the Potter’s family wedding ring on Lily’s hand was, according to everyone, something else entirely and didn’t count as such--had been the unnecessary expensive new suits, robes and wedding dress James and Sirius bought for every guest, all of them matched the wedding theme as well: mainly black clothes in the case of men, with some small detail, such as their ties, socks, hat, belts, vests or chest flowers, in red or gold; all women wear dresses of different colors, all within the palette of red, gold and silver. The something borrowed was the single red rose on James’ chest and the white one on her own tiara; a very special gift, since no-one else is wearing a rose, but some other type of flower. And finally, the one thing Sirius, behind James’ back, did spot on was the something blue, which is not in the public’s eye, and only James will see it later tonight--her garter up her leg. 

They get to the dance floor, James makes her whirl to face him and grabs her by the waist while she rests a hand on his shoulder. The dance starts slowly, shifting ever so lightly, allowing them to gradually pull closer, to the moment when Lily can rest her head on James’ shoulder and isn’t ashamed on doing so. Trying to be in touch with him as much as possible for as long as they’ll have. 

“You feeling OK?” asks James in a whisper, so no-one but her hears him. 

She knows what he means and yet, refuses to answer that today. “Couldn’t be happier.” 

James simply beams at that, all worry forgotten already, and Lily chuckles under her breath. Where he’s concerned, the trouble is keeping him focused on something problematic. 

“Sirius did a real job with you,” she says seconds later. 

“Meaning?” 

“Didn’t expect you to be able to actually finish a whole dance,” confesses Lily, as the first song slowly comes to an end till vanishing, and the guests start applauding again. 

“Well, you’re in for a great surprise, then,” chuckles James, whirling her once more as a second song starts--this time, some guests get to the dance floor too, Sirius with Euphemia and Remus with Minerva, for one. 

But the surprise is greater than planned and worse than expected. All of a sudden, when their third song’s almost over, a blueish intangible spectre appears in the middle of the dance room, frightening all the guests. The dancers stop swirling at once as everyone turns towards the Patronus, cast by Kingsley Shacklebolt. Instintively, James and Lily lean into each other, adopting a defensive position towards the other. 

Thankfully, the threat isn’t over them, the wedding or neither of the guests presents, but either way, its message, asking for help protecting a muggle family who’s been targeted by Death Eaters, before disappearing into thin air with no proper farewell or unnecessary polite words, it’s not exactly reassuring. 

Some gasps and yells raise into the sky and everyone has a hard time trying not to panic and causing a stampede that would only make things worse. But the thing that everyone does is look around to make sure their beloved ones are still safely on the same spot they were before the Patronus appeared: James, the Marauders, Euphemia, Minerva, Peter’s family, Arthur... 

James the one to react, kissing Lily’s cheek before stepping away from her and clearing his throat to easily attract everyone’s attention. 

“Everyone,” he starts, looking around, making sure all the guests are safe and sound for the moment, “if someone wants to leave the wedding, do so now before we put on the protection wards.” 

He doesn’t need to say it twice: some Ministers, the Daily Prophet’s correspondent and some other guests disapparate from their spot without a word. Arthur at least takes the time to congratulate them both once more and apologize. 

“I want to go home and make sure Molly’s OK,” he says, stressed. “Call if you need more help.” And with that, he’s gone too. 

James doesn’t hold it against any of them; he’s busy taking care of other things already. “Mom, please, you need to stay here,” he orders Euphemia. 

“You do know I’m also a member of the Order.” 

“We don’t need you. We’ll be fine.” 

“It’s your wedding day, I’m not--” 

“I’m not losing you too,” interjects James sharply. Knowing it’s the worst argument he could ever have brought up, but also knowing that that was the only one that could convince his stubborn mother. Hurt, still aching for her husband’s death, the woman finally nods very slowly, swallowing back the tears, raising a hand to James’ chin. He leans into it, for just some very brief seconds. 

“Don’t worry, you won’t be losing us too. Now, go. 

“Peter, your family stays too,” he orders, raising his voice as Euphemia turns around and runs towards the family. Peter’s siblings and parents are not members of the Order and, though they’re of age and could also go and give them a hand, don’t seem up to it. And they’d never ask them to. “And can you stay here with them?” asks James, sweetening his voice. “I need my mother protected and you won’t be at ease out there with your family behind.” 

“Certainly, no problem,” says Peter, almost grateful to be able to skip the battle. Last time he fought side by side his companions, he was badly injured, so they all prefer him to stay safely behind. Even if they have to use a sorry-ass excuse like that one. 

Finally, James turns towards Lily in a deep sigh, who’s already changed her wedding gown into some plain, comfortable muggle clothes and looks at him a bit exasperated. “Don’t even try it, James.” 

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” replies the man, transfiguring his clothes too. 

They’re all ready; their Order member friends, their clothes changed too, have already cast defensive spells all around the Manor and its boundaries to protect everyone staying behind. All that’s left now is for them to Apparate. 

“Not getting cold feet, are we, Prongs?” demands Sirius, standing at the other side of James. 

“Of course not.” 

“Come on, it’s always a pleasure to kick some Death Eater’s ass,” exclaims Lily, grabbing his hand. 

As if that were the cue everyone was waiting for, people around them start to vanish to Kingsley’s address. Sirius stays behind, though, seeing that nor Lily or James are even trying to Apparate. For one simple reason: Lily’s leant forward to whisper one single sentence into her husband’s ear. 

“The sooner we end with those Death Eaters, the sooner we can come back home and start our wedding night,” she acknowledges. 

James has a hard time trying not to show his feelings in front of Sirius--thankfully Lily’s still holding his hand tight--and before Apparating has to remind himself several times of the dangers they’re about to face. But he just knows that thought will be present on the back of his mind even throughout the fight. There’s no way they’re going to lose today against some stupid Death Eaters. They’re more than ready to live their lives, if they could get a break from this goddamn War.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After graduation, every one of the Marauders scrapes by through their new lives. Which in Moony's case, turns out to be harder than anyone else's. When the rest of the Marauders find out, an immediate intervention follows suit.

After five long painstaking minutes, the man’s got scarcely enough strength to climb the last steps to his elevator-less sixth floor apartment, grab the keys from his briefcase and put them in the lock at his second try. 

Anyone who’d take the enough time to take a good look at him would think he’s at best, drunk, heavily intoxicated at worst. Even his bosses at work have noticed so; and he’s aware this new job’s already hanging by a thin thread. Furthermore since he has to ask for a couple more personal days eventually, he’ll find himself unemployed within two weeks, tops, without a shred of doubt. Which will lead to another job hunting, wishing to find something within a month, before the next full moon, or else he’ll be bankrupt. 

Such a lovely future ahead of him. 

He sighs as he turns the key in the lock, wondering why on Earth does he keep complaining every time he faces the same crossroad, once every some months--he know the drill only too well. Patience, not complaining or arguing, dropped head and bear the storm; that’s how he’s been surviving since graduating Hogwarts and leaving home. 

The situation might not linger for too long either way; if his werewolf counterpart doesn’t end up killing him eventually, he might not survive the War. Every cloud has a silver lining, that’s for sure; his may turn out to be facing death shortly after entering his twenties. It’d spare him of too many troubles. 

He closes the door with his foot and drops the keys and briefcase on the stool by the entrance. Halfway taking off his coat, he feels what he should have noticed as soon as he opened the entrance door--tiredness doesn’t justify it. He freezes and gives them five more seconds, completely still, listening to the silence without moving. 

“There’s no hidden money in the apartment. There are no valuables in here. I don’t have any cash on me. If you’re looking for ransom, none of my friends own one more cent than I do. And if you leave right now I won’t call the police, I swear to God.” 

Five more seconds after his speech, equally silent, equally strained, equally still, pass by until then, a lamplight lights. He squints and shields his eyes from the sudden light with a raised hand, to be able to see a dark figure standing by the lamplight--then he scowls, dropping the arm and the anxiousness. 

“Merlin, Pads, was your plan giving me a heart attack?” he demands, taking off his coat. 

“Better question yet-- _what the hell is all this?!_ ” demands Sirius in turn, raising his voice, raising his arms to cover the whole bare, petty room. 

Moony stands in the middle of the place and looks around his apartment, for real, through Sirius’s eyes. Not the noble, trust-funded for life, heir to one of the most influentials, darkest and richest wizard families in the World, but just through his best friend’s eyes, an objective pair of eyes. 

The place is barely 30 meters square, with creaky floor tiles, windows that won’t shut properly and let the cold air in, walls too thin to allow any kind of adequate privacy amongst neighbors. The kitchen, bedroom and study constitute the biggest room, if that’s what he can call the mattress on the floor, a crooked desk held by a pile of old books he found on the street and a microwave with bare potential, a rusty sink and too cabinets falling apart containing mostly closed to expiration date products and cutlery for one person. Only one door, the bathroom--with a minuscule toilet, sink and shower, and just cold water running weakly, at best. Excluding the one Sirius lit, there’s only one more lamplight, over the desk, both to study and late-night reading; the one hanging from the ceiling broke three weeks ago. The thermostat never worked, reason why most of his clothes are spread around the bed, because, apart from lacking a proper wardrobe for one, some nights it’s colder inside the apartment than outside. 

Remus just knows he cannot deny the truth or manage to get out of this one; and so he doesn’t even try, as he steps to stand in the middle of the living room, raising both arms to signal everything surrounding him. 

“This,” he says, defeated, “is the only apartment I could afford after graduating Hogwarts and leaving home with a £300,00 paycheck and a two-months long tops job,” he confesses. 

And though it’s quite simple, Sirius doesn’t look as if he can cope with the truth. 

“But--But your parents--, he stutters. 

“They’ve sustained me for more than thirteen years since the moment I was beaten, I think I can manage on my own now,” snaps Remus coldly. 

“Moony, this is not living! A homeless has more luxuries than you do!” 

“Please, Padfoot,” begs Remus--but he doesn’t finish the sentence, because he doesn’t know how and Sirius, luckily, stops him with another yell. 

“Your parents are under the impression that you make ends meet, Moony! Heck, we thought so too! Can you understand how much this hurts us all?!” 

“I get by, Padfoot,” he promises. And even himself can hear the lie and lack of confidence in his own words. He’s fighting a lost battle. 

“Let me disagree with you there, Moony. You can barely stand on your own two feet, you’re obviously not eating well, you’ve lost weight and you’re--shivering inside your own ‘apartment’, if that’s what you call this?” 

“Please, don’t, Padfoot. Just let it go.” 

“This--situation, this way of living. . . Is not living at all, Moony!” 

“I promise you, I can live by like this. You don’t have to worry about me.” 

“Can’t you hear the stupidities you’re saying?!” 

The efforts of keeping this disagreement at full speed and force after an extenuating week--or month--at work gets the best of Remus, who, feeling a bit dizzy, needs to lean on the stool as not to fall to the floor. Quitting the bashing for a second, in a single jump Sirius’s by his side, checking his forehead and heart beat, forcing him to sit down. Afterwards, he lets out a low scowl. 

“Goddammit, Moony. You must be coming down with a fever,” he says. 

The patient at stake doesn’t even say a word and just closes his eyes and sighs deeply. All week long he’s been unsure about his well-being; only, he doesn’t have the luxury to miss a day’s job for a simple fever. Sirius reminds him so as well: 

“And the full moon is--” 

“In three days,” Remus supplies, knowing it only too well. 

Again, Sirius scowls under his breath, stepping away from him in a frenzied state, as if to avoid hitting Remus physically--he wouldn’t survive it. Actually, if he now were to face any Death Eater, he’d drop dead within two seconds after starting the duel, out of exhaustion. 

Remus stares at Sirius, who, exasperated, contemplates the place he’s on, hardly believing it’s fit for human living and that someone actually dares to demand payment for living in here; the landlord should be the one who gave money away to convince anyone into staying in this place. 

“That’s it,” says Sirius then. 

His confident voice alerts Moony at once and looks up, standing from the stool--and frightened, realizes Sirius has decided on something. Good or bad, he can never tell with that man. 

“You are not staying here for another day. Wait for me there,” he says, signaling the stool. 

“Pads, please just let it go--” 

“Like hell I am,” he yells. “Give me ten minutes before you put up the wards again. Though by looking at you now I understand why they were so weak and ineffective in the first place to refrain me from entering,” he adds in a scowl. 

He doesn’t give Remus the chance to refute that last statement or anything else he’s said. It wasn’t even a suggestion; despite Moony’s attempts, in two long steps Sirius’s outside the apartment. Once out in the hall, he disapparates without another word--he did take the time to send him one last scorning look, however. 

Moony sighs, too tired to even try to follow his friend and stop him from whatever he’s planning on doing, so he returns to the apartment, closes the door behind him and pours himself a glass of metallic-taste water from the kitchen sink. He goes to drink it on the mattress, dropping like dead, raising a rack of dust into the air. 

Exhausted, he leans against the wall, almost dozing off already, knowing nothing will get his ass off the mattress now--only to cook one petty, non-nutrient meal for dinner. 

Except, just maybe, Sirius’s big return, right in the middle of the living room, bringing with him three more people with their hands full and one animal. Petra, almost considered the family’s dog, jumps from Peter’s arms as soon as she sees Moony and, dashing joyfully, bounces into Remus’s chest. With the addendum weight, he almost lacks the strength to get up again; and he certainly isn’t able to push the poor dog away. 

In the meantime, James, Lily and Peter are looking around the place with equal faces of incomprehension and dismay, similar to the one on Sirius’s face when he found him twenty minutes ago. Which for Remus is the straw that broke the camel’s back and he stands up right up infuriated and outraged--with some troubles to do so. 

“Pads, who the hell gave you the right--?!” 

“I did,” he says, opposing Remus’s rage with quite the nerve and calm façade, “‘cause you’d never give us permission to.” 

“Dear Lord, Moony,” scowls James. “I see now why you never invited us to your place.” 

“Perfect,” spits Remus, who looks ready and willing to kill Sirius right here, right now--if he ever managed to gain that much power of will and strength. “You can get out now, all of you. Leave the same way you got in.” 

His sharp orders are joined by grabbing James by the arm and pushing him towards the door, hoping that will make Lily and Peter follow suit, leaving him and Sirius to have a much needed conversation on manners and timing, until he realizes they didn’t come with empty hands. 

“What--What did you bring?” he asks, surprise overruling, temporarily, his anger. 

“Oh. Couple things Sirius instructed us,” explains James, looking down at his hands as if he were now realizing the weight he’s been carrying for some minutes. 

“Makes sense now,” adds Lily, dropping the couple bags on the floor and starting to get things out. “First off, couple heaters,” she says. 

As she shows the two heaters, which used to belong to the Potter’s Manor, Sirius takes them and places each one at the two furthest corners of the room, without even considering asking for the plugs. 

“Some food too,” adds Lily, distracting Moony from Sirius’s doing, showing a couple of enormous tupperwares. “James, could you--” 

“No need,” says Peter, taking them from Lily’s hands, “I’ll reheat it myself in the oven.” 

“What--?” demands Moony, exasperated. 

“As if that were possible,” scowls James before Moony can think of it. 

“Guys!” bellows Remus with a yell that finally does the job--three of his friends jump scared, freeze on their spots and turn surprised to stare at him as he stands in the midst of the three of them. Sirius, on the other hand, keeps adamant doing whatever the hell he wants, as in, to transfigure a gigantic wardrobe to which Moony has no use for. 

“Heaters? An oven? This place can’t handle this much.” 

James grins broadly--and Remus knows they’ve planned everything prior to their arrival, opposing his wishes. 

“Third task for today,” says Prongs, taking out his wand and winking at him. “Make some magic.” 

“Oh, please,” scoffs Moony, throwing his arms in the air. 

But he cannot stop them and after following their advice, for his own safety, he stands on a corner, arms crossed as to show his grudge, but acknowledging he’s not able to stop them all. 

“Everyone, wands, please,” orders James, like an orchestra director, as everyone follows his command. 

Within ten minutes and by the work of four wands, the place has transformed. If he hadn’t seen the process with his very own eyes, he could never tell this was his old apartment--what’s around him now looks nothing like it. 

Using an undetectable extension spell his apartment now looks like the Potter’s Manor living room, and not only on the size matter, but also regarding the conditions of the place. The windows and entrance door’s locks are repaired, same as the window panes, cleaned up the apartment, replaced the lose tiles with woodblock floor, transfigured a gigantic, 18th-century-ish dinner table--and pairing chairs--already set with a festive mantlepiece, silver cutlery and couple bottles of wine. His mattress has been replaced by a double-sized bed with canopy and the wardrobe beside it, empty instants ago, is now being filled with dozens of garments--jeans, trousers, sweaters, clean shirts, underwear--better clothes Moony’s owned since leaving Hogwarts, all of them folded and hang neatly and with perfect precision by Sirius. His old clothes are being cleaned by a washing machine he didn’t own, as he used the building’s cleaning services, though he might reconsider throwing away every piece of clothing he used to wear up until today. 

The biggest change comes from the kitchen, or what is now a proper kitchen, ‘cause what he had before had no right to be called as such. Apparently he now owns as well a nine by six feet fridge, an oven, a toaster and a two-level dishwasher, apart from two sinks and numerous cabinets which at least seem able to hold an amount of weight without breaking. 

Moony stands looking around in awe, smelling the amazing food being cooked, with Beatle’s “Please Please Me” on the background playing from a CD player which did not exist minutes ago. Petra’s also astonished by the work happening around her and in spite of not grasping exactly what the hell’s going on, she welcomes every new detail in with a joyful bark, though she does not attempt again to leave Moony’s arms, because he couldn’t exactly stop her. 

He can barely believe the place he’s in, which has no resemblance to the one he used to live in; now warm, cozy, comfortable, candles lit all around, exactly the kind of apartment he’d like to live in--perfect for the heartfelt, wholehearted family meeting that this evening’s drifting off to. 

“Moony,” demands Lily, softly, the slightest hint of humor in her voice, “come on, don’t stall. Are you going to stand there all night?” 

He can’t answer her--that might be a possibility, he’s too weakened by what his friends are doing. 

“Guys,” he whimpers instead, “this is too much.” 

“Damn right, this is too much,” scowls Sirius without looking up at him. “Better get used to it.” 

“No, really--” 

“Don’t you dare say a thing against any of this,” forbids James rudely, another one who doesn’t bother quit his job while arguing with Moony. 

“I can’t accept this,” he says despite the prohibition. 

“Yes, you can,” promises Lily. A bit exasperated, she lays on the table a matches box and spins to glare at him, a hand on her waist. “And you will accept this, whether on your own free will, or we’ll force you to.” 

“Please,” he begs one more time. “I don’t want to be the beneficiary of your charity project.” 

They don’t stop from going up and down the place, running different kinds of errands to make int look like worth living, but the scoff and roll of eyes are general coming from each and everyone of his friends. 

“Don’t be stupid,” scowls Peter. 

“Only you see this that way,” adds Sirius. 

Lily’s the only one to drop her chores for a second, trying to stress out her point, to get closer to Remus and caress his shoulder, reassuringly, a loving and caring touch. 

“We call it helping a good friend in need,” she says, kissing him lightly on the cheek. 

Despite there’s nothing he wants more than to believe all they’re saying and doing, Moony just can’t put his feet down, seeing his friends, behind Lily, working to transfigure his place, to make it look like a familiar apartment capable of sustaining a bit of love. 

“My landlord wouldn’t exactly approve--” 

“It doesn’t matter, ‘cause tonight’s the last night you’ll be spending here,” interjects Sirius with a dramatic roll of his eyes. “Can’t believe you lasted this long. Don’t bother paying him this month--save it.” 

“That may be because I can’t afford anything else.” 

“Well, it’s a good thing we can, isn’t it?” 

James’s sentence was stated in a too matter-of-fact way and, considering how Sirius’s staring at Moony, by his brother’s shoulder, Remus knows who the plural refers to exactly and starts shaking his head even before he can get the words out of his mouth. 

“No, Prongs, Pads, you wouldn’t dare. I can’t--” 

“Come on, you know us, we can’t live in a house with less than three floors and five bedrooms. We’ll have plenty of space for you too. You’d be doing us a favor.” 

“But--” 

“Moony,” interjects Lily, a bit tired right about now, “let it go. It’s happening and there’s nothing you can do about it, so just get on with it.” 

“Couldn’t have said it better myself,” agrees Sirius, coming from the kitchen carrying a gigantic cooker filled to the top with warm, almost boiling soup. “Come on, everyone sit down.” 

As James, Lily and Peter oblige, the first one also taking the time to pour red wine on their five glasses, Moony can do nothing but imitate them too. He lets Petra on the floor and takes a seat while Sirius pours the soup on their plates--giving him the biggest of them all. 

“Come on,” scowls Sirius before he tries to object, placing the plate before him, “we’ll need our strength if we’re going house hunting, starting tomorrow morning.” 

“Seriously?” demands Lily in a scoff, unfolding the napkin and placing it on her knees. “You couldn’t come up with anything better?” 

“It’s the perfect name,” he defends. “Sums it up perfectly. Well, dig in,” he orders, as everyone was waiting for him to sit down, in front of James, leaving empty the table heads on purpose, without really thinking about it anymore. 

They comply as well to this command and within seconds the four of them are complimenting Sirius on yet another delicious nutrient vegetable broth that warms them immediately. They don’t talk for a minute or so, too busy eating and, on some cases, staring at Moony eating eagerly his soup, at a rate he’ll be finished way earlier than anyone else. And if that’s true, they’ll all be happy about it. 

Despite the apparent content from the man, after some more spoonfuls he takes a deep breath, trying to alleviate his greed and hunger, knowing there are pressing more matters at hand that need some kind of a discussion--at least, on his part. He can guess what will his friends say about it and he’s proven right. 

“So you insist with your idea--” 

“No, we’re not insisting at all,” interjects James, a bit rudely, though without looking away from his food, “we’re forcing you to leave this place. Tonight.” 

“And move in to live with you all,” he sums up. 

“Is that really what frightens you?” exclaims Sirius, barely containing his laughter. “We’ve lived together for seven years, I’d think there are worse things to worry about.” 

“My biggest concern is that whatever place you may choose, it’ll be your--” 

“It’ll be _our_ place,” insists Lily, reaching a hand to caress Moony’s fingertips, smiling when she notices his corporal temperature’s come down to a normal level. “Don’t doubt that for a minute.” 

“Guys,” sobs Remus, shaking his head. 

“Why’re you making a fuss out of this?” demands Peter, who’s barely stopped eating throughout the fuss, nor doesn't care to do so now that he's speaking as well. “You cannot truly be sorry for leaving this place.” 

He keeps his head dropped, focused mainly on the soup, oblivious to the fact that every other diner guest is staring at each other almost appalled, eyes wide-open, but with grins on their faces too. They were trying to put on a not-so-obvious, more delicate way, what Peter’s just blasted out without a single remorse about it or, apparently, a care in the world--that was just what looked like, because he looks up with a flashing smile, staring only at Remus. Because that was exactly what the man had to hear. 

He sighs deeply, the big grin still flashing indicating the convincing’s over already. 

“Fine, then,” he says. “Guess I’ll move in with you guys.” 

“Jeez--don’t jump for joy,” scowls Lily, chuckling behind the napkin. 

“Yeah, you don’t have to come if you don’t want to,” adds Sirius, punching Remus on the shoulder. A bold move, considering how the man almost hits the table, but dismisses it altogether. 

“I’m sorry--I meant to say, I’m honored by your proposal and I’ll be incredibly happy to move in with you when you choose a place.” 

“That’s better,” praises Peter, nodding in aproval. 

However, James, two seats down, raises a single finger then. “Uh-uh. There are several things wrong in that sentence.” 

“What do you mean?” demands Moony, eyebrows frowned. Against his wishes he’s already agreed to move in with the Potters, he doesn’t know what in the world can they ask of him now. 

Prongs lists the cons with his fingers. 

“First, we’ve already stablished it wasn’t a suggestion,” he says, getting scowls and rolls of eyes around the whole table. “And second, you’re not moving in ‘when we’ve chosen the place’. You’ll be living with us, so you come with us from tomorrow on. You’ll help choosing the place--we’re not deciding on our own.” 

“Though you will also abide by what we decide,” warns Sirius sternly, knowing that if it were up to Moony, they’d live in a crappy apartment in central London. 

“Fine,” sighs Moony, raising his hands in a silent defeat, still grinning despite everything. “I’ll come with you to check out houses, say my vote that will almost instantly be disregarded and then, when you’ve decided, move in with you.” 

“Sounds like a plan,” decides James, flashing smile on his lips. “Is there more, Sirius?” he asks. 

“Sure,” says the man, jumping off his chair. “Moony, you’re having another portion too,” he orders, taking Moony’s empty plate before he can try to object. “Anyone else?” 

“I’d like some more too,” says Peter, handing his plate to Lily. 

They all take a second share of soup, even when they know there’s home-made cannelloni too afterwards, but their hunger is never alleviated when the cook’s Sirius. They can never get enough of it. Specially Moony, who at any given time throughout the month--before, during and after the full moon--he’s greedy for his cooking skills. 

Once again, they wait till the man’s seated to start eating. The broth’s still appreciatively warm, thanks, no doubt, to a spell cast by the cook. 

“By the way, Wormtail,” says Lily some minutes after, returning more neutral, however important, topics now that Moony’s noted where they stand--where they’ve stood since they befriended each other, and hence should have been able to contact them for help himself. “Will you be using one of the spare bedrooms as well?” 

“I’d love to,” promises him, taking a sip of the wine, “from time to time, though. My parents still want me spending time at home.” 

“And what we want doesn’t matter?” shrieks James, with a theatrical voice of dismay, causing a roar of laughter around the table. 

“I didn’t mean it like that,” chuckles Peter, blushing slightly. “I’d love to move in with you all.” 

“What’s the problem then? I promise we can be more permissive parents.” 

Peter pretends to ponder this point for some long seconds, staring at the distance. “It is true I’ve always wanted a cat.” 

Now it’s Sirius the one who overreacts completely, gasping, grabbing James’s sleeve, a hand to his chest. 

“ _The betrayal!_ ” he shrieks. “You wouldn’t,” he adds in a scowl. 

“Try me,” dares Peter, chuckling under his breath, because after all, it was a joke. 

“Don’t turn this into a dare,” begs Remus. “He’s more than capable of doing it and I don’t want you to. I repel cats, remember?” And as if she’d heard them, Petra gets closer to him and rubs against his leg, completely at ease with Moony, who leans in to caress his head. 

“Wormtail, you can bring home your family and friends whenever you want,” promises James, still wanting all of their friends at the same place. 

“And we’ll turn a blind eye on any hot date,” adds Lily, winking at him. 

Sirius, once more, starts chuckling. “As if that were possible.” 

“Hey, you!” shrieks Peter, crumpling his napkin and throwing it at Sirius, with real bad aim, since he can grab it easily before it hits him. 

“More accurately, we’d become blind the day he brings home a non-related by blood girl,” chuckles Sirius. 

“Pads, mind your own businesses,” scowls Peter, ready to raise from the table. “Or I swear I’ll--”

“Hey, you know him, he’s messing with you,” Remus calms down, chuckling softly, disbelieving that Peter still can’t avoid getting into a quarrel with Sirius every time Padfoot innocently provokes him. 

“Pads, that is so wrong in so many levels that--” 

“Boys, please behave,” interjects Lily. 

When the den’s mother speaks with such a stern and sharp statement, everyone follows. Achieving the same kind of success she did when she used to handle the Marauders back at Hogwarts, her four kids shut up at the same instant, proving, once more, how will their relationship be when they all live together at the same place. One responsible adult and four children, whose roles, Remus knows, will be exchanged only too often, gladly. 

He can’t help but to fall into a routine that until a few months ago, right after they graduated from Hogwarts school, used to take place at least every other week at the Potter’s. Just a quiet evening, a pleasant dinner with soft background music and delicious food, goofing around, laughing at stupid jokes, somewhat holding an intellectual conversation. He just knows that when they finish the meal, they’ll clean everything up with magic, as not to waste any precious family time, they will turn up the music, drink a bit more and at some point, they’ll be dancing all around the place and arranging a karaoke night. To make it perfect they might even give some friends a call--Frank and Alice, Marlene, Dorcas will certainly join them without a doubt, especially considering the booze offer. 

Less than five minutes in Moony’s already regretting the decision he took when they graduated Hogwarts, the stupidest of his life, probably. Being too embarrassed not to be able to open up to his friends and ask them for help when he knew he needed it, when he saw every day that Prongs and Padfoot and Lily were just arranging their lives together because they wanted to and most importantly, could. Now he can’t understand why in the World of Magic did he try to hide the truth from these four people, the friends whom he knows would do anything for him, as they’ve showed time and time again in the past years. He can’t even begin to compare this place ot his old crappy apartment. How could he ever push away his own family?


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Marauders look for a place to live in, the five of them, that meets all their requirements and expectations.

She moves away the curtains and peers through the window, staring at the hectares of fields and forest on her feet that, should she say the word, could be hers. Grey clouds have been hiding the sun all morning, but even so she can picture the fields with bright, green colors, the chanting of the birds, the now defrosting river cursing through her property. On her feet, a three-story high manor of reconstructed brick; and a five per ten feet terrace, where she can picture herself within fifty years, getting tanned under the summer breeze and sun, with her husband lying by her side and her grandchildren bothering them with their shouts --if they survive the war, that is.

There’s two soft taps on the door and someone (presumably said husband, only a twenty-year-old man) enters the room and steps forwards till he can hug her from the waist. She leans on her, but doesn’t release the curtains, and so her husband can also watch the fields and picture a perfect future. The both of them relinquish on the dream, swaying slowly on their feet, praying they’ll get to live it and it won’t be a simple wish.

“Do you like it?” asks James very softly, against her ear, still looking out the window.

Lily’s smile broadens. “Of course,” she says, raising a hand to caress her husband’s cheek. "It's gorgeous. Do you want it?"

"I want anything that'd make you happy," replies James in a whisper.

"Right now I'm nearly as happy as I can be," answers Lily, holding her husband's hands.

James nods and kisses her gently on the back of her neck. As a consequence, Lily lets out a low moan, her vision of the fields disappearing momentarily as she leans on the kiss, wondering if James is planning to put into good use the bed of the principal dormitory.

She’s certain her husband can hear her thoughts; he laughs under his breath, against her neck, sending shivers all up and down her body. She’s about to turn around to face him and lead him to the bed when she realizes he’s got other plans in mind. He turns his head and yells “Guys?” at the top of his lungs, laughing again after seeing her astonished and grumpy face.

At once they hear steps and movement coming from three different places on the house and within one minute, Remus, Sirius and Peter are all at the dormitory’s doorstep. They all form in a circle, James and Lily without once letting go of each other’s hand.

“OK, cards on the table”, says James, engaging the debate they take every time they check any house. After all, it's a place for all of them to live in and they need to agree on this one. It's a family decision, like Sirius has numerously pointed out. “Cons. Go.” They’ve all had time to check the manor from bottom to dome and to get their own ideas about it.

“I can’t afford this,” is the first intervention coming, as it couldn’t be otherwise, from Remus.

“Cons that don’t involve the money issue,” sighs James, almost exasperated, with a roll of his eyes. They’ve been over this time and time again, it is true, but only because to James, it’s not a problem; and for Remus, it’s his main problem.

“It’s too big for even the five of us”, says Peter, still looking amazed at his surroundings. “Three whole families could fit in here comfortably.”

“Prongs and I are used to spacious, ostentatious places,” replies Sirius with a flashing grin.

“It’s too far away from London,” argues Remus. “It’d take us hours to get to work. Our jobs--”

“We can Apparate,” answers back Lily.

“Yes, Remus, you know all that,” sighs James once again. “You've said the same from every house we've seen the last week. I meant, real cons, mate.”

“It’s way too isolated. Didn’t you want to live in a community neighborhood, Lily?”

They all turn to the woman, who blushes noticeably, but answers back with a shy smile. “There’re some minor sacrifices I’m willing to take.”

“Anything else?” asks James, looking around at the four of them. When no-one speaks, he nods, signaling the end of that part of the debate, as neither him or Padfoot, as usually with the same point of view, had nothing to say against buying this particular house. “Pros?”

“As Remus has pointed out, the location itself”, says Lily. “It’s safely far away from any community, muggle or wizard, so he can spend the full moons at home.”

“The fields are extensive, it’d be like Hogwarts”, adds Sirius. Though his idea isn’t well received by the man in question, who sends all of them an irritated and outraged look. “Well, if you wanted to, we could remodel the basement; it seems like a safe place too,” he amends almost at once after hearing Remus’ scowl.

“I refuse to let him stay the nights in a basement like a dangerous animal”, says James. “You are spending the full moons with us, Remus; just like we always do. This is not up to debate.”

"Come on, I'm not taking as many chances as we did at Hogwarts. There's Lily now, I'm not putting her at stake just for--"

"And we've stablished time and time again that we'd do exactly what we used to at Hogwarts: place all the possible wards around the house and keep the wolf distracted far away from the Manor. Lily'll stay in all night and there won't be a single problem", explains Sirius. "Whereas you really need our presence so it's at least bearable. Like James has said, we're not going to discuss this."

“Guys, I'm not--"

"Remus," interjects Lily softly, raising a hand to caress her friend's tensed shoulder. "Full moon's still three weeks away, there's time to talk about it again," she says before they engage into another discussion on the issue, one that she’s heard multiple times since they left Hogwarts. "And in the meantime, there's something else we shall discuss."

Her words focus all the Marauders on the issue at hand rather than the transformation during the full moon. James is the first to focus and to speak, again with his caring and soft voice when it comes to his own, small family. “There’re three dormitories, so all of you can come and go as you may.”

“The fields are excellent for playing Quidditch," adds Peter, quite proud of himself being able to mention Quidditch as one hobby of his own, now that he’s much better at it thanks to his friends’ training.

“Prongs and I can afford the initial payment, and from there all of you can help with what you can every month from there, with what you earn at your jobs,” argues Sirius. It’s been some time already, but no-one dares to mention that if James and he can access the full amount of money of their vaults, it’s because their parents--their biological ones, since the Euphemia and Fleamont Potter were their parents for the both of them--have deceased. But they had to move on; they couldn’t just disappear in the middle of a War, not when so many other wizards were killed on a daily basis, not when too many people depended on them. It’s much better to put the money into good use by thinking about a future free from Voldemort. A future where James and Lily won’t have to be into hiding and will be able to share their lives with their best friends away from Godric’s Hollow.

“I can picture myself living here with my children,” says Lily, looking sideways at James.

Though it’s the kind of comment that some time back would have caused all sort of mockery and complaints from all their friends, arguing that there's a time and place specific for corny words like this, it doesn’t now--not that they’d have heard them either way, in any case. The three of them may already be James and Lily’s kids, but they know the couple will want to have a family of their own one day, and they couldn’t be happier about it --if they actually get to raise their kids. Ideally after the War’s over, as well as any danger to that future child, but either way, they all cherish some blissful moments.

And no-one can speak against that argument. There's simply nothing more to it and, either way, it was obvious there were more advantages tan disadvantages.

“It's settled,” concludes James, nodding once, still looking beamingly at his wife. "This'll be our home." They've all lost their families and left too much behind them already; now they get to raise their own, their special, complicated, intimate one. Hopefully they won't lose another one of their families to the War and this one'll last forever. 


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In 1980, Lily finds out that she's pregnant, a piece of news that isn't very well received by the woman. However, she's got a great support system within her closest friends.

From the other side of the counter, the bartender glances now and then at the red-haired woman, when he reaches out for another row of glasses to clean, or steps into the kitchen to get the mop, or leans in to talk to her partner--he finds himself staring at the woman way too often, considering the wedding ring he's seen on her finger when he handed her her first drink. But her undeniable beauty isn't the main reason why he's compelled to gaze at her time and time again. He's worked at the Seven Duels almost twice as much as he's owned the place--an amount he refuses to give an exact number to, to avoid falling into depression. Over the years, he's got to know the regular customers and he's been able to identify within minutes the reasons behind one’s drinking: celebration, depression, compassion, flat out jobless and goalless people... And even the different types of each category: someone who's celebrating their birthday will certainly order drinks that'll have nothing in common to the ones that an engaged couple will order. That’s why he can tell, without the real intention of wooing her, that the red-haired, young woman shouldn't have any reason as to drink all alone at three in the afternoon, because of depression. But she is.

The door opens once more, the dim sunlight through the clouds penetrating the even dimmer cafe for a few seconds until the new customer closes the door. Jack raises his head; he doesn’t know the man standing at the threshold. A new customer, once more--there’s something going on today. Mike and Judy aren’t even here yet. 

“Hello,” he greets warmly even so, “what can I get you?”

The man was looking for something in particular, which turns out to be the red-haired woman at the counter, who hasn’t even noticed there’s a new customer. The man, roughly the same age than the woman, though tired-looking and not her husband since his finger is ring-less, steps forward and sits on the stool at the woman’s right. She doesn’t even look up from her glass--she hasn’t even noticed anyone sitting by her side.

“How ‘bout some water, for now?” suggests the man after some silent seconds.

Jack nods and turns around to get the glass of water. By the time he turns around towards the not-married couple, he sees the man crouched, head tilted to one side so the woman stumbles upon him, willingly or not.

“Pads,” she greets, her voice hoarse and thick, reason why Jack hopes he misunderstood the woman’s word.

“There you are,” chuckles the man, caressing the woman’s shoulder. “How’re you feeling?”

The woman scowls and raises her glass as an answer.

“I’m drinking all alone in a pub at half past three in the afternoon,” she reports. “How the hell do you think I’m feeling?”

The man chuckles again, but there’s a hint of sorrow, or preoccupation, in his laughter. He glances over his shoulder, noticing the bartender way too close, and grabs the woman by both the shoulders, never too aggressively to make Jack or the woman concerned about the sudden gesture, to make her stand.

“No,” she groans, stretching out the vowel for some long seconds. A complaint that the man doesn’t listen to.

“Yes,” he says sternly. “You can take your drink, that’s OK. We’re just going to talk over there,” he grants. Such a suggestion gets the woman’s immediate compliance, as she grabs the glass and stands on her feet, motioning for her friend to lead the way.

The man sighs deeply and without letting go of the woman’s arm, he turns towards one of the booths, out of hearing range of the bartender and the couple other employees cleaning the place. He helps her sit down and motions for another glass of water before sitting before the woman.

“You didn’t have to come, Pads,” scowls Lily as Sirius wipes some dirt off his sleeves and grabs a napkin to clean the table’s surface too.

“I think I did, actually,” he replies, raising one eyebrow, pointing at her glass.

She chuckles and takes one more sip, absolutely carefree.

“How did you find me?”

“Oh, it wasn’t that hard,” says Sirius. “I sometimes listen to your husband’s non-stop babbling on his wife, especially when he confesses being concerned about you. . . And your drinking. Figured you’d never miss a day’s work for your life and this is the hospital’s closest pub in an all-wizard area.”

Lily squirts her eyes at him, halfway to being angry at Sirius, but he honestly doubts she could follow the simple line of thinking he’s just explained. He lets her take another sip from her drink and then offers her the water. She frowns at it and turns away, but she must realize, despite everything, that’s all she’s getting in the immediate future, she’s in no way capable of standing and asking the bartender for another round. Plus, she’s going to want it some time soon; Sirius should know.

“Okay, Lily, cards on the table,” begs Sirius, crossing his hands over the table. “What’s going on with you lately?”

She crosses her arms too and avoids his gaze.

“You know, I’ve read somewhere that for a woman to drink more than two beers or two glasses of wine a day makes her an alcoholic,” she says all of a sudden, grabbing her glass again, raising it up to the air. “Such rubbish.”

“I might agree with that statement,” Sirius reckons. “How much have you drunk today already, Evans?” 

She pierces him with a single look, that kind of gaze James is so used at getting, from their first day of their first year at Hogwarts. 

“Come on, Lils, honey, talk to me,” begs Sirius, sweeting his voice the way he knows Lily hates, at least when it’s addressed to her. “What’s bugging you?” 

“Nothing. I’m--”

“Don’t dare saying you’re fine,” Sirius interjects her rudely. “Your husband’s been worried sick for days now and quite honestly, I am too. He’s tried to give you your space and time, but neither one is working, so here I am--just tell me.”

“Fine,” she scowls, raising her voice too much and slamming the glass on the table, scaring the couple customers and employees around them. “Let’s see. We’re in the middle of a War that got my parents murdered, as well as my husband’s. As a muggleborn witch, I’m a direct target for the enemy, without mentioning that I’m part of an illegal organization that fights actively in the War. I haven’t spoken to my sister for more than a year, I don’t even know if she’s still alive, since Lord Voldemort could have targeted her randomly. And he who once was my all-time best friend is aiding the Darkest Wizard of all times, which will certainly end up with us both facing in the field sometime, resulting in one of us, if not both, dead. Did I forget something?”

Sirius waits as patiently as he can until Lily finishes her speech. She hasn’t bothered lowering her voice at all, and so all of the employees have heard all of it loud and clear--he figures none of the customers minded any of it. And though the employees are aware of the current situation in the Wizardry World, he flashes a polite smile at them, hoping to loosen the tension. No-one likes a reminder of what’s going on in the real world; that’s why people resort to drinking. Behind the counter, the bartender nods at himself in silence, as if Lily’s words and Sirius’ reaction had given him the evidence of something he wanted to prove to himself.

Letting that go, he’ll worry about it later should that be necessary, Sirius turns to look at Lily again, who’s glancing down at her glass. . . Full again. Without his knowledge, the bartender’s filled it up by magic at some point. Nice of him, Sirius scowls, not even trying to fight Lily about it; he can tell when a fight’s lost from the beginning, which is most of the time when it comes to Lily. 

“Thanks for the summary,” he snickers, his voice a whisper. “But you did know all of that some time back, I thought you were dealing with all that pretty well, what with us and marrying James. You’ve only been drinking for the past couple of weeks. What’s triggered it?” 

“Guess everything’s sunk in now,” she replies.

He can’t stop her from taking another sip, just proves his disappointment and anger by shaking his head from side to side until Lily lowers the glass, appropriately ashamed.

“I know it hasn’t. You’re stronger than that,” he replies flatly.

Lily drops the glass hard on the table, not breaking it miraculously.

“Why would you say that? What do you know about my life? How can you say that you know me at all?” she demands, outraged, raising her voice again.

Sirius’ look is that of bewilderment and he sounds almost as outraged as Lily, though he does try to keep it cool, knowing part of Lily’s words and thoughts are only triggered by the booze and she doesn’t really believe all the things she’s saying--or so he hopes. 

“Lils, what’re you talking about? We’ve known each other for years. You’re like my sister. I know you.”

“Oh, really? You can claim that you know me?” she dares. 

“Sure,” promises Sirius, raising his arms in the air. “You’re Lily Evans, the brightest Muggle-born witch of our year, probably of all Hogwarts History. You’re a pro at Potions, better than Professor Slughorn ever was and ever will be, and your work at St. Mungo’s, with the Department of Treatment and Prevention of Poisonous, Pernicious and Virulent Substances, is absolutely incalculable. You’re strong, you’re smart, you’re beautiful, you’re witty--” 

“I’m pregnant,” Lily adds sullenly to the adjectives Sirius was listing. 

That interjection gets Padfoot flabbergasted and speechless--something they can’t manage soon enough with the man. He stutters for some long seconds, staring now at Lily’s face, now at her stomach, as if trying to see the bump that’s clearly not there yet. For some seconds he even tries to make the calculus, trying to decipher when in the world did James had the fantastic idea of knocking Lily up, but he gives up within seconds. 

“Then you’re done drinking,” he states, grabbing Lily’s glass and not letting her get it back this time. 

“Come on, Pads--” 

“No,” he flatly refuses and she sees her drinking days are well over, giving up sinking into her booth. For more certainty, he levitates the glasses to the counter, signaling the bartender not to fill them again nor send them back again. “How long have you known?”

She raises a single eyebrow. Sirius understands, sighing. That’s why she started drinking, although it was not the most sensible idea. 

“Prongs never told me you were trying to--” Sirius stops talking mid-sentence when he realizes the truth, after one stern look from Evans. “Oh. You weren’t.” 

“No, we weren’t looking for a kid,” scowls Lily, looking down on her empty hands. 

“Just enjoying the honeymoon as much as you could.” 

Evans scowls as she looks at him with venom in her gaze. “Don’t joke, Pads.” 

“Sorry,” he apologizes, although internally, knows he said nothing but the truth--and Lily knows it too. 

“We never had a talk about children,” she resumes, twisting her fingers, wishing there was something else between her hands altogether. “In fact, if he’d asked me about it when we got married, I’d have flatly refused to have none.” 

“Please,” scoffs Sirius, against Evans’ expectations, a complete and honest agreement with her, “you don’t really mean that.” 

She raises her hands in the air. “Didn’t say never,” she explains. “Only, I wouldn’t have a child right now, Pads. I won’t.” 

“Care telling me why becoming a parent is such a nightmare?” he demands, only he turns off his brain after he blastered the words. “OK, sorry, that was stupid--I know first-hand how horrible some parents can be. But you could be great parents, Lily, I’m sure of it. You’ve had tons of practice already, what with the four of us at Hogwarts.” 

“Pads, I’m not saying that I’m afraid to be a parent. Well, yes, I am, but I know I’ll be ready for it when the appropriate time comes,” she mends in the end. 

“So you don’t want to have them now,” Sirius sums up. Evans nods once, hoping everything’s crystal clear at last, till Padfoot speaks up once more. “How so?” 

Bewildered, her eyes red, Lily leans closer, this time minding her voice. 

“Do I have to list again all the reasons why we’re living at the wrong place, the wrong time?” 

“Think you did a marvelous job earlier, thank you--don’t mess with a masterpiece,” replies Sirius, waving her suggestion away with his hand. 

“Good,” Lily approves, satisfied. 

“So your plan was drowning the baby?” Sirius accuses, pointing at the counter and the whole bar with a move of his head, not wanting to imagine the amount of bars she’s frequented the last weeks and is already considered an honorary member of. 

Lily tilts her head too, in regret and also in rage. 

“Not exactly,” she whispers. “I’ve had an appointment booked at St. Mungo’s for next week.” 

“That’s good,” encourages Sirius. 

“To ponder my possibilities concerning the baby,” Lily finishes her sentence. Twice she’s managed to get Sirius speechless; this isn’t the kind of doctor Evans should be seeing regarding the child she’s carrying. 

“Please tell me you’re kidding,” he begs, voice sullen. 

“When was the last time I cracked a joke, Pads?” she replies. 

He knows the answer--sometime before she realized Prongs had knocked her up and she began drinking. For both their sakes, he doesn’t say a word about it. 

“Look, I get this all comes as a surprise and you’re terrified at the prospect of having a child in the midst of the War--” starts Sirius, really trying for once to keep it cool and show understanding towards the woman. 

“You can’t even start to imagine, Pads,” scowls Lily, shaking her head. 

He sighs deeply, raising his hands in the air. 

“OK. Maybe I can’t. But what I can tell you is that this isn’t something you can take care by yourself--you shouldn’t. Your husband should be by your side, supporting your decision, whichever it may turn out to be. And you also need your friends, Lily--a group in which I’m included.” 

Following his last words, Sirius reaches a hand to caress, then hold tightly, one of Lily’s hand over the table. For the first time this afternoon, she doesn’t refuse his contact in any way. 

“So please, can we talk about it like the real friends we are?” he begs in a whisper. 

His desperate plea is, to his surprise, shared by Lily; without looking straight at him, she nods a couple times, and he knows she’s fighting the urge to start crying right there. He reaches his other hand and this time, Lily meets him half-way. 

“Have you told James?” he asks off the bet. 

On this occasion, Lily works up the courage to look at him in the eye while she shakes her head. 

“Well, that’s the first thing on the agenda, ain’t it?” suggests Sirius, already trying to stand up from the booth to call James. Lily’s tight hold on him prevents him from doing so, keeping him on his seat. 

“Don’t,” she begs. 

“Like I said, Lils, this is not something you can do alone,” says Sirius warmly. “I can be by your side as your best friend and sibling, but you do need your husband.” 

“I--Don’t know how to tell him,” she confesses. 

“Please, there’s nothing you cannot tell Prongs,” scoffs Sirius. “You’ve spent the last years insulting him, cursing him, hexing him and literally saying anything that popped into your mind in order to hurt him in any way you thought of. How could this be any different?” 

“Because this is nothing like all those things he made me go through Hogwarts,” she replies, her voice weak. 

“You’re right,” nods the man. “It’s much more private, sensitive and important. Three reasons why you must tell him. Come on, what’re you afraid of? He always wanted a family, and from the moment he set eyes on you, he knew you’d be his wedded wife and the mother of his children. You’ll make him the happiest man on Earth with these news--which is saying something, after you married the man. Please, give him a call.” 

“How can you tell what he wants?” she demands coldly, on the edge of breaking. 

“Maybe ‘cause I’ve lived since we were twelve with that besotted, stupid, romantic boy? I suffered all those delusions before you and him were really a thing. He wants to spend the rest of his days with you, whether that’s three or three thousand, Evans; I can tell you that.” 

“He won’t want this burden,” she replies, sending a hand to her stomach. 

Sirius scowls once more. “You’re only trying to convince yourself here, Evans. You’re married to the man; he’d be delighted to have your child. I promise you. Deep down, you know that’s true as well, Lils.” 

She keeps avoiding his gaze, confirming his words altogether--he shows he knows by flashing his all too-well-known grin. 

“Please, Evans. Give him a call,” he suggests. 

Lily ponders it for a few seconds more--or pretends to, really. There wasn’t even an option. In the end, she nods once--and Sirius celebrates his triumph by slamming his fist onto the table. Lily doesn’t reprimand him, only rolls her eyes at him, a very brief sign that the Lily Evans they all love and adore is still somewhere there, underneath many layers of misery. She stands and heads for the counter, this time only to ask for the public booth and some change. 

Behind her back, Sirius keeps staring at her over the booth seats, as if making sure she does call home and speaks to her husband. Though she couldn’t have been more bogus; she can’t bring herself up to give such piece of news over the phone, so when she comes back, her tortured expression is just a mirror of the erratic and frenzied look they’ll find on James’ eyes. 

He was not mistaken: less than ten minutes later, Prongs barges into the bar, the door slamming against the wall, frightening the employees and couple of clients, including Lily. Before she can flee, Sirius squeezes her hand and stands from his seat, so James sees them and marches over there. Sirius meets him halfway; they shake hands, James pats him on the shoulder before walking past him. In those two silent gestures, James has thanked him for looking after Lily and convincing her to give him a call and Sirius has warned him to cool down and take it easy with his wife. 

While James takes his place on the booth before Lily, Sirius does the same a couple tables over, where Moony’s already waiting for him, a glass of soda on his hands. Moony was keeping an eye out on James at their apartment; it was obvious he’d come with Prongs if he found out anything concerning his wife. Without answering the unasked question, Sirius just points to the couple with a wave of his head. 

Over the next few minutes, the time she needs to explain the situation through teary-eyed and whimpering sentences, Lily’s distraught expression remains unchanged--but it all takes a turn when suddenly James’ face radiates euphoria and he explodes in a burst of happiness, standing to hug Lily, kiss her on the lips and every other inch of her skin, carefully caressing her belly. At the next table, Sirius starts chuckling again, raising his glass towards Remus. 

“We’re having a baby,” he says. 

“No way!” chuckles Moony. “She’s--?” 

“He knocked her up, yep,” confirms Sirius. “Guess we can refute the hypothesis that James was incompetent all along.” 

“That’s amazing,” he whispers, shaking his head and smiling fondly at the couple. 

“Yeah,” agrees Sirius; there aren’t many other words they can use at the moment. “Merlin. James’ wildest fantasies are really all coming true--not being killed by Evans before his fifteenth birthday, dating Evans, marrying Evans, having a kid with Evans. How on Earth did he get to be so lucky?” he chuckles, looking over at Remus for a second, actually waiting for an answer. 

Remus takes a long, measured sip of his soda, before tapping Sirius’ arm. 

“Oh, you just hold on tight, Padfoot. Karma’s going to struck him soon enough. He won’t probably get to his fourties.” 

“Hope so. He can’t get away with all of this so easily,” scoffs Sirius, Remus’ reassurance actually helping him coping a little bit better. “I swear to God, he won’t be having a second child before I’ve had a date with Tonya.” 

“That girl you met at the pet shop? Please, Pads--that sounds closer to a fantasy than James ever getting an actual date with Evans,” scowls Remus, wihtout even looking straight at Sirius anymore while mocking the man. 

However, he tilts his head, almost admitting Remus’ words. “Can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think you might be right. Guess James had a better chance than me, that’s all.” 

They stay silent for a few more seconds, staring at the couple celebrate, now the two of them smiling and actually rejoicing, finally at the same page about the baby. 

“Jesus. This is the best piece of news we’ve heard in--”

“Months?” Sirius provides, upon Moony falling silent trying to remember. 

“Possibly,” says Remus, nodding in disbelief and a little bit of fear. But he can’t help but smile when he peers over Sirius’ shoulder, at one James still laughing, celebrating, irradiating happiness all over the place. 

“Hey, guys, come over here!” he yells then, signaling the two of them to join them in the booth. “And could you pour us five glasses of champagne, please?” he asks the bartender, raising his voice even more, just in case the employees and customers still hadn’t got a whim of what were they rejoicing. 

“Uh, Prongs, let’s just stay away from alcohol for the time being,” Sirius stops before Lily, too shocked from everything, is forced to do so herself. “No need to toast with champagne.” 

“Right. Sorry,” James whispers, kissing Lily on the forehead, before addressing the bartender once more. “Forget that last order, please. Come on, you two, sit down!” 

“Congratulations,” Remus says fondly kissing Lily on the cheek before sitting before her. 

“Thanks. And don’t be so polite all the time, Moony, you can say it--this _was_ unexpected,” she chuckles, because those are the words that were left saying no-one dared to say. 

The three men chuckle, while Lily caresses her stomach in a soothing and almost excited way she hadn’t thought possible, happy to see their old known Evans is still with them, showing after releasing herself from a burden that shouldn’t have been there in the first place. And had she known how James would react, she wouldn’t have worried herself sick with it. Still has some reservations herself, though. 

“Merlin, James, you are completely, absolutely, utterly mad,” complains Sirius. “How dare you to knock her up?” 

“Thanks for the encouragement, man,” scowls Prongs. 

“I was trying to do the opposite of encouraging you,” replies Padfoot. “Are you actually prepared to have a baby, Prongs?” 

“Let me save you time and research: the answer’s no,” promises Lily. Despite the bickering, she’s tightly holding James’s hand over the table, not letting each other go. 

James scoffs and on the other side of the table, Padfoot nods in agreement. “I mean, taking care for someone else but yourself 24/7. . . That’s going to be tough.” 

“I’ll get through it,” says James. 

“For Pete’s sake, the other day you burnt dinner!” 

“It’s not as if I killed someone!” 

“It was _pasta_ , Prongs! No one can mess pasta!” he shrieks, seemingly abashed for real. 

“On my defense, I’d never used a Muggle kitchen before,” says James under his breath, knowing that defense barely holds water in front of his peers. 

“Seriously,” proceeds Pads, prompting laughter from all around the booth, even when Remus and Lily were holding a conversation on their own concerning Lily’s well-being and morning sicknesses while Sirius and James kept on their usual bickering, “are you _actually_ prepared for this?” 

“Are you?” replies James. 

“Me!” shrieks Sirius. “Why should I--?” 

“Well, you’ve been breathing down on my neck every second of my life since we first met on the Hogwarts Express when we were eleven. Hope you’re going to be there as well when that kid’s born,” scowls James, now including Remus, and obviously Peter, in the conversation as well. 

Such a statement gets everyone speechless, a little bit surprised. Although they hadn’t considered it before, they haven’t had the time really, James’ suggestion--to put it delicately--is meant to happen. That child will be raised by all the Marauders, alright. As Lily realizes so, she rolls her eyes, fearing the nightmare the next few years will become--if they are lucky to live through the War. 

“You’re going to make me regret having this baby, aren’t you?” she scowls, squirting her eyes at James, Sirius and Remus. 

“That goes without saying,” scoffs Sirius nonchalantly. “Plus, aren’t you having second thoughts already? Having a child with James Fleamont Potter. The inflated heir of the Potter family who. . .” 

“Please, don’t remind me,” begs Lily, hiding her face. “I already know this is a mistake, OK?” 

James, noticing the very well hidden tone of despair, reaches a hand to caress his wife’s shoulder, hoping to give her strength. It’s going to be one hell of a pregnancy. 

“Well, we’ve all got nine months to get ready,” he says. 

“Make that seven and a half,” replies Lily, an answer that gets James speechless once more. Hadn’t imagined Lily would have kept this a secret for _that_ long. 

“Anyway, it’s great to see our family grow,” says Remus, to avoid a fight between the couple at a moment like this, caressing Lily’s hand over the table. She raises her head, the hint of a smile on her lips. 

“Indeed,” she nods, getting a deep sigh and a permanent glued-on-his-face grin from James, a encouraging pat on the elbow from Sirius. 

“Speaking of which, couldn’t you get a hold of Wormtail?” asks James--they’re clearly missing someone important if they’re about to celebrate this piece of news. 

“Tried contacting him, no response,” answers Sirius, shrugging his shoulders. “He might be still eating with his family or something. We can tell him later.” 

“Which will give you time to prepare a proper celebration, I’m sure,” says Lily, cocking an eyebrow, already fearing what Sirius could have in mind after the brief minutes he’s got to think about the opportunity at hand. 

“Never going to miss a chance for a festivity, that’s for certain,” nods the man. 

“Just--try to keep it small,” begs Lily, but she can tell as soon as she says the words and sees all the intrigued eyebrows raised in front of her, that plea is just something impossible. “May I ask that you at least don’t set the house on fire?” 

“I can abide by that rule,” accepts Sirius, a bit grudgingly. 

Seeing as this is as best a get-together they can enjoy at the moment, James orders and pours himself four glasses of soda, the best choice for everyone present, placing each glass in front of his friends and wife, for the toast. 

“For this family to grow much, much bigger in the next few years,” he says. 

They all toast with him, although there are some remarks his friends--family--want to say concerning the wish he’s just made, and they really don’t waste any time before doing so. After their first sip of soda, Lily’s the first one to speak. 

“I’ll state right now that if this baby inherits your mischievous gene, I’m out of here,” she declares--and they all realize she’s not bluffing. “You’ve been warned well in advanced, James.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is my feeling that Harry wasn't planned--James and Lily were far too young and they were in the middle of a War. However, I do believe they turned out to be great parents, as I'll prove in further chapters.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermaths of an Order mission gone south.

“Come on, Lils. Wake up. Come back to me. Keep breathing. Please. Please, honey, do it for me. Come back to me.”

James grabs his wife’s cold and unmoving hand, waiting desperately for her to wake up, but getting nothing in return. If right now, after almost twenty minutes of begging to an immobile, unresponsive and unconscious Lily, he isn’t yet in a panic attack is because he’s checking, almost twice every minute, that she’s still breathing and with a pulse. But neither are her normal vital signs, and are actually weakening by the minute. 

“Lils, please,” begs James. With his free hand he grabs a lock of Lily’s hair and puts it behind her ear, then takes advantage of it all and starts caressing affectionately her hair. Almost expecting, or hoping, that she’ll remark, as usual, not to mess with her hair and keep the chaos primarily on his head. But today, he gets nothing of that sort. 

There wasn’t supposed to be a fight. The mission was supposed to be simple, non life-threatening, of minimum risk, and Albus thought the five of them--Moony, Wormtail, Pads, Lily and himself--would be more than enough people to spy on a single Death Eater’s movements for a whole day. They were confident, as Mad-Eye left them alone in the morning, promising to see them all in the evening without any surprises, back at the Potter’s, presumably to invite himself to dinner. 

Nothing farther than the truth. Everything went wrong, and James isn’t yet sure what happened, or how fast the events could have changed. One moment there were the five of them spying on a lone Death Eater and the next moment he’d called for backup and they were the ones surrounded by an enormous number of Death Eaters, in a duel they hadn’t planned, and one they weren’t ready for. Specially Peter, who they know, ever since Hogwarts, he doesn’t stand a chance at dueling by himself. For that and other various reasons, every one of the Marauders was distracted, something inexcusable in the middle of a battle against Death Eaters; and that’s why they were surrounded up so easily in a very tight circle, almost against each other’s backs. But that, as expected from a bunch of young adults caught themselves in an already too long war that was nipping in the bud their tries at a normal life, hasn’t meant to them an indicator as to leave the scene, though they could--should--have, not even after Remus got knocked out and Peter, without Moony’s coverage, received a hex just as well, leaving Padfoot, Lily and himself without back-up coverage. The only thing they had done was sending a few Patronuses to the closest Order members, though after fifteen minutes without any answer or back-up, they were starting to lose faith. 

And now they are indeed at the Potter Manor’s dining room, but not at all ready or in the mood for a pleasant, calm and relaxing dinner after the mission, seeing as four of them have arrived at the house badly injured, needing medical attention and an obvious medical follow up, and the only one who’s still standing on his own feet--though with bleeding cuts all over his body, paler than usual and feeble--is on the edge of a nervous attack because of his wife’s state. To sum up, the mission hasn't end quite as expected. And they're still waiting for answers, as to know what the hell happened, and how the fight has eventually turned out. 

“Wake up, Lily, please,” he whispers once again, leaning forward to place his head right by his wife’s face, caressing her jaw with his unkempt hair, now messier than ever, almost expecting to hear Lily’s usual remark on that characteristic of his. And as much as he’d like to hear it again, his wife doesn’t utter a word, not even opens her eyes. 

As if nothing could go worse, then Bellatrix had appeared then, and obviously Padfoot had taken her offer at a private duel and they had engaged a fight way too far from the rest of the Marauders to help him or check on him, so there went another wand to their help, and another distraction to keep them from focusing on the battle with their remaining Death Eaters. A big one, because, even if Sirius had seemed pretty unharmed and in a healthy state before his confrontation with Bellatrix, they have heard his yells in a couple of occasions, and their hearts skipped a beat when they saw Bellatrix joining her Death Eaters companions, with Sirius no-where to be seen. Nor heard. The worst feeling took over the three Marauders left standing. 

From the corner of his eye, James sees movement behind him and lifts up his head. At least, despite everything Sirius has endured--not that he has kept a list or would say at loud, but he’s suffered more than a couple of Crucios for certain--, his brother, thank Merlin, is standing right beside the couch, face pale, a few bandages over his body, his right arm actually in a sling to immobilize it, using Marlene as a temporary cane. But he’s on his own feet, alive and kicking, almost ready to engage in any other fight should the chance arise. And James sees in his brother’s eyes the same worrying expression he must have on. 

James dares to take a look over his shoulder, scanning the dining room, which has been converted into a hospital wing, crouches and mattresses all lying around for the injured to rest and be taken care of. Luckily, most of the previously occupied ones are now empty, as all the injured Order members have been given some revitalizing potions and must be feeling much better from their injuries. Most of them are, actually, starting to stand up--not without help--and gather around the couch where Lily lies. Everyone’s feeling better from the exhausting and devastating fight; everyone, except from Lily, he groans, staring at her once again. 

“Give her time, Prongs,” mumbles Sirius, placing a hand on his brother’s shoulder. 

He nods with his head, not looking up, without wanting that everyone sees his eyes filled with thick, unceasing tears. 

Damn the war. Damn the Death Eaters. Damn Bellatrix, and Fenrir, and Lucius. Damn Lord Voldemort. If he could have just killed him tonight... It would have done everybody a favor; no-one would mourn his death. Both the Muggle World and the Wizarding one would appreciate it and thank him, or anyone who killed Voldemort, for that. 

He has tried to do so tonight once again, of course, though even he has to admit that his attack had been so obvious that a five-year-old could have deflected it just too easily, likewise the effort it took from the Dark Lord. What he wasn’t expecting for was his countercouse, but he has endured in silence the torture, not wanting to give Voldemort the satisfaction to see him scream in pain, or beg him to stop, like he so presumably claimed that did his parents not two weeks ago. And when Sirius has shown up at their side, he’s gathered enough strength to get up and stand against Voldemort side by side with his wife and brother --Peter had wisely fled the scene with Remus’ unconscious body, to get help, because at that point, they truly needed some back up. Sirius could hardly walk or speak, much less engage another fight; Lily had been injured trying to block Voldemort’s second Cruciatus Curse thrown at James; and he himself was still enduring the after effects of the torturous spell. 

And then Voldemort had the nerve to ask them once again to join his ranks, “not wanting to spill any magical blood unnecessary”, knowing the great addition that Sirius, James and Lily would mean to him. As if they could have changed their minds after the path of destruction Voldemort leaves behind him, after the discrimination, the mass murders, the disappearances, the killings of innocent people --muggles, or just wizards who stood up for the right ideals. As if they hadn’t faced him enough times for him to already know their answer, or as if he had hoped it would have changed. As if it could change, no matter how many times he asked, or try to convince them they are on the losing side of this war. 

As every time he dares to ask them, the answer's an overwhelming ‘no’. James almost scowls the word through clenched teeth. Their answer hasn’t changed from their years at Hogwarts, when the War started, and won’t change now that they’re adults, they’re married, they’re grown up, and they’re trying to start a family despite everything. As they honestly said out there to Voldemort, they’d be willing to give their whole world in exchange of Voldemort’s life, without a second of doubt; even a life without magic would be infinite times better than a world with Voldemort on it, trying to impose his insane ideals of demagogy and tyranny. 

They hear again the sound of apparition and turn their heads--James reluctantly--to see the rest of the Order members arriving at the dining room as well. They all look fairly unharmed, despite the obvious and expected minor bleeding injures; and one of the Prewett twins is leaning against the other one. But if that’s the main casualty of the second aftermath against Voldemort and his Death Eaters, none of the Marauders are at all concerned for them. 

The Order members--Prof. Minnie, Shacklebolt, the Prewetts, Marlene--cast their Patronuses before Remus as a proof they’re the real ones and haven’t been impersonated nor some Death Eater has taken a Polyjucie Potion to the same effect. James doesn’t bother to look and make sure of who they are: as soon as he sees there hasn’t been any casualties because of them, since he’s left the scene almost immediately after their arrival, carrying an unconscious Lily and a badly injured Sirius, he turns again towards his wife, not having left hold of her hand for a second. The silvery corporeal Patronuses of various animals lit the dim room till they disappear and someone else, with a flick of his or her wand, turns on all the lights of the dining room. James barely notices any of this. 

“Come on, Lily,” he begs again, caressing her cheek. “Don’t leave me hanging like this. I’m waiting for you. We’re all waiting for you,” he adds, as Sirius comes closer. And behind them both, he hears various steps gathering around. “Lily, please--” 

Remus’ hand appears out of nowhere and checks her vital signs again. The frown between his eyebrows, which has been there ever since he’s regained consciousness and has heard about what’s happened to Lily, disappears all of a sudden, giving James a light hope, who checks her vitals at once as well. And, just like Remus has noted, her pulse is getting stronger. 

“She needs her rest,” reminds Sirius in a whisper, kneeling side by side with James and grabbing Lily’s free hand, as Peter caresses her hair and Remus her legs, resting over a cushion. 

“I know,” James nods, tears--of joy--again spilling from his eyes, barely seeing his wife through them. “But I’d be much more calm if she woke up and took a potion.” Someone has taken a frask and left it on the table closest to the couch, close by for when Lily regains consciousness, which remembers James that even before the mission they needed more potions. The best one to do it would be, obviously, Lily, but right now that frask might be the only last they’ve got. Lucky the other Order members are safe and sound. 

“What happened? How badly were you injured?” demands McGonagall, worry leaking her voice. 

With a deep sigh, Remus stands from the couch, stepping a few feet away from James and the others, knowing he won’t participate a bit in the conversation and, actually, will be bugged by it, as he’ll consider it a distraction from his wife’s condition. 

“Trout detected us. We still don’t know how,” explains with a dead tone and face, as if relating something someone else had told him, as if trying to alienate himself from the fright, the war and the really high possibility of death. Everyone copes with the war the best way he can. “And before we could engage against him, he called for back-up.” 

“Which leads us to think the errant Lord Voldemort had ask from him wasn’t as innocent or simple as we thought,” reasons Shacklebolt. 

“Indeed,” agrees Remus. “Though we don’t know what it was, either.” 

“We need to inform Dumbledore.” 

“It can wait, I want to hear the whole story first,” stops McGonagall, turning towards Remus again. 

“There isn’t much left to say,” sighs Remus, scratching the back of his neck. “The fight was overall the usual confusion--spells being cast at every direction, covering each other’s backs without really knowing from what. And everyone, except Bellatrix Lestrange, wore their masks, though I recognized Mulciber, Lucius,... The old gang, in short.” 

“Fenrir Greyback too, of course,” adds Sirius to the recounting. 

“Couldn’t forget him.” They can see in the eyes of everyone present that they haven’t answered the main question they were asked, and Sirius lets out a deep sigh. 

“I dueled Bellatrix, but it’s nothing I haven’t suffered before,” informs he with a shrug of his shoulders, obviously downplaying the severity of it all. Not just the couple Cruciatus he's suffered tonight, but also the circumstances where he first felt them: with his crazy, stupid, blood-pureness obsessed family. No-one dares to bring this up very often, much less right now. “I’m much better now. As for Remus--” 

“The werewolf venom is wearing off now,” says him. “Lucky it was just me.” 

“I feel sad to say Greyback got away again,” whispers McGonagall, throwing a sad look at Remus. “Though you might be pleased to hear that he was injured pretty badly. Who--?” 

“I did,” answers Sirius. “I--well, me and Prongs, actually-- attacked Fenrir when he was aiming directly at Remus.” 

After this, no-one says a word in a couple of minutes, gloomy atmosphere hanging in the air, as well grateful for James and Sirius covering Remus’ back with Greyback participating in the fight as well. It’s no secret to any of them, and were actually informed of this tiny piece of vital information, that a werewolf can’t never act against his creator. Being Greyback the one who bit Remus when he was five, Lupin could never defend himself properly from the other werewolf, as protective shields usually don’t stand a chance against a werewolf’s brute force; much less attack him, nor try to kill him. All the Order members know how close it is for Remus every time Fenrir Greyback appears in a fight.

Seeing that Remus is unharmed, or at least can move, walk and speak by himself, though rather out of air, McGonagall turns towards the only person who hasn’t uttered a word since their arrival at the fight scene. “Are you alright?” she asks, concerned, but nevertheless a trying to change the subject. 

“Took a couple Cruciatus, overall, I’m fine,” replies James without turning his head, not even his eyes away from Lily. “And I can’t remember what spell was cast at her, but it hit her right in the stomach and knocked her. She’s been out for almost half an hour now.” 

“She seems to be alright, she’ll wake up eventually,” says Remus with a serene voice. 

James nods again, acknowledging the fact, though that doesn’t quite calm him down, not yet, not until Lily finally open her eyes. Around him, Professor McGonagall sits in the couch beside the sofa, Marlene just sits with her legs crossed on the carpeted floor, her arm touching James’ shoulder, and Shacklebolt stands behind the sofa; all of them, looking anxiously at Lily née Evans. 

Lucky for everyone’s nerves--and James’ especially--the moment comes sooner than later. A few minutes after Lily finally shrugs and opens her eyes, being his husband and his pleadings the first things she sees and hears, which bring a weak smile on his lips.

“It’s okay, James,” she whispers, finally cutting off James’ retaliation of pleading and gratitudes. “I’m fine. I’ll keep fighting, for ever and always, I'll keep breathing.” With cautious and slow movements, she places a hand over her stomach, an act that James mimics at once, caressing her pale and cold skin. “For the both of us,” she promises finally.


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Marauders spend a cozy, warm evening at the Potter's, which is after all, everybody's place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains a tiny bit of bromance so if you can't handle it, don't read this.

An ear-splitting music spikes all of a sudden, making James, who was coming back from the bathroom unsuspectedly, jump and cover his ears with both his hands, though it doesn’t make that much of a difference. He likes Abbey Road as much as the next guy, of course, but maybe this is only a bit too much. 

Sirius, the obvious responsible for the loud music, doesn’t seem to think the same. In the kitchen, he’s singing and dancing along the music, to James, something incompatible with cooking a decent meal, though it’s not the same case for Sirius, as he’s got a couple fires on and there’s a delicious smell filling the apartment. 

“HEY! Pads!” shouts James, barely audible to himself above the music. 

“What is it?” asks Sirius in return, coming closer to his best friend as to hear him, however not at all bothered by the loud tune. 

“Maybe a bit too loud, mate?” says James, pointing at his own ears to make Sirius understand what he is saying. 

“If it’s not loud, you can’t feel the music!” replies him with a broad grin.

“So, now, we’ll be deaf at our early twenties as to appreciate good music? Is that it?” 

“When have you become such an old, boring man, Prongs? You sound like Dad.” 

“Oh, don’t give me that.”

“Well, you’re closer to his age than me, that’s for sure.” Keeping the beat of the music, Sirius gets back to the stoves, cooking almost mindlessly, disregarding the slight discussion with his brother.

“Come on, we’re only a few months apart, Pads; don’t start again with that.” 

“Just keeping it real, mate.”

“OK, maybe you don’t care about us, but what about the neighbors, Pads? We’ve just moved in, I don’t want--” 

“Two steps ahead of you. I put Silencing Charms all around the house. We can sing and shag as loud as we want till dawn, that nobody will hear us.” 

“You've got a nice plan going on here that I had no idea about,” laughs James, leaning into the doorframe. “Should I remind you, though, that I already have a pregnant wife?” 

“Why do you assume I was talking about you and Lily?” replies Sirius, turning to throw him with a smirk. 

James freezes for a couple of seconds, staring blankly at the broadly grinning, humming the song, Padfoot.

“I walked right on this one, did I?” reflects later, not wanting to believe this has just happened. 

“Yes you did, my dear Prongs,” agrees his brother, returning to the fire and stirring with a large spoon whatever’s inside the saucepan. 

Better to change the subject that lingering on it, reflects James--as it happens every so often.

“You need help?” 

Even with the music still on, he can clearly hear Sirius growling at him. Sometimes he’s nothing more than a big wild dog; he’s as tamed as one in his human form. 

“If you want to keep all of your extremities, you won’t walk into the kitchen again while I’m cooking. I can put a charm on the doorframe if you need me to.” 

“I see you’ve got it covered," he says immediately, retreating. "I’ll just go lie down in the living room till the food’s ready, then,” he decides, wishing for a fast escape from the place in order to keep his head above his shoulders.

“Smart move,” approves Sirius, as James closes the door of the kitchen. 

It doesn’t seem like the loud music is bothering neither Lily nor Remus, who look peaceful reading on the sofa, him in a sitting position with his legs on a beanbag chair, while Lily, has taken the rest of the sofa, her head on the opposite side than Remus’, her feet on his lap. Knowing this is a comfortable position for his wife, and not being able to deny her anything at this rate, James doesn’t even try to suggest an arrangement of positions as he seats on the couch on the right side of the sofa. 

“Great expectations?” he reads from Remus’ book cover. “If it is from life, I’d love to have a small little conversation with the author. Or is he talking about love--? Then I don’t think there can be any expectation that’s too high on this matter.” 

Remus sighs deeply, whereas Lily lets out an unintentional good laugh. 

“Prongs, please quit trying to know anything of Muggle literature, or being that good at guessing that you can just figure a whole book from the title,” begs Remus. “You really have to stop this.” 

“Nah, it’s an old habit by now. I’m sorry, Remus. Lily-pads, what are you--?” 

“Don’t even try it, James,” Lily interjects him, with a stern and cold voice all the Marauders have heard multiple times throughout their academic years at Hogwarts. One that not even James can resist to it yet. 

“Shutting up,” agrees him at once, knowing when his wife is lying. 

They are silent for a few minutes, Remus and Lily reading, James humming the songs under his breath, all of them hearing Sirius cooking--and singing and dancing--freely in the kitchen. The amount of times Pads has put up a show at anyplace, indoors or outdoors, pretending to be a rock star. He's probably using the wooden spoon as a microphone, actually. Despite his initial complaints, James has gotten used to the loud music and he almost likes it, not that he’d never admit to that. 

“You know,” says Lily all of a sudden, as an afterthought, placing down her book. For some reason Remus does the same to look at Lily straight in the eye, taking her seriously right from the start. “I introduced you both to muggle music and it turned out more than OK, it’d seem. I think we’d get the same results with muggle literature.” 

“Oh, come on, Evans, don’t spoil the party”, begs James. 

“Party?” repeats Remus under his breath, with an amused voice. “You consider a weekly family reunion, a party?” 

“You’re right, it isn’t,” concedes James. “Not with a little bit of dancing.” 

Before none of them can reply, he changes the melody with a flick of his wand--they all hear a loud yelp from Sirius in the kitchen demanding to know who the hell has changed the song and get the previous one at once if they don’t want to feel the consequences on their bones--and James helps his wife to stand up. Upon checking her balance, James places a firm arm around his wife’s waist, holds her hand steadily and begins a slow dance, without taking his eyes away from his delighted, cheerful and gorgeous wife. With everything going on lately they haven’t taken that much time to dancing, despite how much she likes it, and from the last time they did, closely after their wedding, there’s been a slight change on Lily’s stomach, which they need some dance steps to get used to, even when at the same time, it just feels as normal and usual as ever before. 

They hardly notice their only spectator, still on the couch, though having abandoned his book too, following their movements around the room with an astonished and amused look on his face, until he interrupts this perfect moment. 

“Prongs, stop it, really,” he scowls half-heartedly. 

“Why, Moony, I didn’t know you wanted to spend so much time with _my_ wife,” laughs James. 

“Of course I don’t--” 

“Shush, Moony’s mine,” replies Sirius, appearing all of a sudden from the kitchen, seeming completely astonished and astounded by what he discovers. “Prongs, why is your wife dancing instead of resting?” 

“Pads, please, I’ve done nothing but rest in the last couple of weeks. Please let this husband and wife enjoy a cheerful moment together,” begs Lily, placing her head on James’ shoulder as if to reassert his words. 

“A very pregnant wife”, reminds Remus with a not-so-quite stern voice. 

“I’m fine,” insists Lily in a whisper, winking at him. So he just sighs, leaning comfortably again at the sofa, looking at the happy couple dance graciously, without having the heart to make them stop. Same as Sirius, who goes to the sofa in silence without interrupting, and shots a knowing look at Remus, asking without words if he wants to join the dancing. Remus answers as silently, shaking his head, and Sirius sits down without a moment of discussion, guessing Remus is still feeling too sore from the full moon two nights earlier. Ever since the war started the transformations have been more painful and harsh than ever; thank God Prongs came to join him with Moony, even though he spent all the night distracted because of Lily being alone at home. 

Trying to distract himself--and Remus too--from these thoughts, Sirius turns to stare at the couple, who are dancing slowly around the dining room. A smile spreads across their faces, neither of them having seen James and Lily share an intimate moment like this in a long time. Though Sirius’ attention gradually shifts, when he realizes James isn't exactly doing a very good job leading the dance, and watches carefully his steps. A brow creases between his eyes as he realizes Prongs not following any kind of dancing pattern known to human or any other species. 

“Prongs, what are you doing, dancing or making a fool of yourself?” he demands after a few more minutes, still staring at their feet. “Have you forgotten everything I taught you for your wedding?” 

“Hey, at least he’s doing so much better than that time in third year when he tried to ask me out on a dance,” defends Lily with a giggle, embracing tightly his husband so he won’t start a fight with his brother. 

“Yeah, well, Prongs here is clumsier than a monkey ice skating.” 

“Stop it, you two.” 

“You don’t know the time I spent trying to teach him to dance for your wedding, Lils,” says Sirius with a dramatic sigh. “Remus can vouch my broken toes. I can’t believe you’ve forgotten everything. Next wedding’s lessons are on your wife.” 

“Hey, stop it, you bastard liar. I was not that bad”, James replies to the both of them. But his reaction and his voice an octave higher than usual say exactly the contrary, as all of them notice. 

“If I recall correctly, Prongs didn’t make that good job in third year ‘cause Lily here hexed his legs two seconds after he began to speak. But he had previously cast a sticking charm on the both of you, so there was no stopping him either way,” adds Remus on James’ behalf and humiliation. If they’re trying to bring back old, embarrassing memories just for the sake of fun, better do it properly and get all facts straight. 

“That is true,” laughs Lily whole-heartedly. “I’d forgotten.” 

“You sure seem to have forgotten a lot of things you did to me. Despite the amount of times I ended up in the hospital because of you.” 

“You ended up in the hospital often enough by yourself and your friends’ help. I only contributed occasionally when you truly got me on my nerves. But I won’t deny I’ve tried to forget some things,” she adds, lowering her voice to a tense whisper, sending her husband a condescending look. Which makes James’ shoulders to drop and his cheerful disposition to vaporize. 

“I’ll never say this enough times, Evans, but I am truly, really, so sorry. Always will be.” 

She laughs and winks at him to let him know everything’s forgiven--though not forgotten--now, before placing her head on his shoulder and resuming their slow so-called dance, which in true honesty is nothing but a delicate, tender, affectionate sway, barely moving from a six-feet radius, while James, as he gets back his usual cheery mood, mums the Wizard classical music under his breath. 

“Prongs, really, I taught you better than that. What would Dad and Mum think?” 

“Don’t listen to them,” says Lily in a whisper. Her voice, getting almost directly to James’ ear, sends an electric shock through his spine and he shivers almost unnoticed. “You really _can't_ dance, dear.” 

The mentioned giggles, as he shoves affectionately Lily’s head off his shoulder, not that annoyed by hearing her laughter as Sirius’ and Remus’ coming from the sofa. 

Being as relaxed as he is, with his family, embracing the love of his life, almost safely away from the war, days away from having his child, in a corny thought James Potter believes that heaven has to be something like this. Being with almost all his family--it's a pity Wortmail's outdoors doing Merlin knows what on Dumbledore's orders; it's bee a while since the five of them have been together--enjoying a pleasant evening with excellent company, relaxing music, delicious food at what's come to be their neighborhood. He could actually live like this forever; that’d be the dream. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided to cut this chapter short and separate this with what's now chapter 26, because I'm too sentimental where this family is concerned and plan on writing at least a couple chapters of the Marauders when Harry's already born.


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Severus Snape POV, during the War, running an errand for the Dark Lord. The time of the year and the place he is brings a lot of painful memories and regrets.

“--And remember the Dark Lord expects full silence and discretion from you.” 

“Of course, I won’t fail our Master. He can count on me on anything else he may need.” 

“He’ll be pleased to hear this.” 

Mr. Borgins bows slightly to him and Severus grabs from the countertop the small wrapped up package before leaving the store. He’s frankly quite miffed that Voldemort sent him on a so-high important errand at Knocturn Alley without farther information of what it was exactly --and he can’t even begin to guess by the size of the package. It’s been hardly a two-minute stop surrounded by secrecy. Of course, he hasn’t dared to ask or demand more information, and Voldemort’s excuse for sending him specifically didn’t satisfy him either. No-one would have bothered Lucius or Mulciber if they were to show their noses here at Knocturn Alley, not more than if everyone knows, or can assume, he’s just buying school supplies for when he starts teaching at Hogwarts as the new Potions professor. 

With a sigh, he decides Lord Voldemort won’t mind if he wanders around a bit, delaying just for a few minutes their meeting at Spinner’s End. He’s not that eager to face the Dark Lord again. He's with him almost 24/7 and now and then he can use a break. And so, he puts away the errand on the pocket of his robes. 

The gestures make his right sleeve roll up, just a few inches, but enough for Severus to get a glimpse of the Dark Mark tattooed on his forearm, which he recently acquired. With a disgusted face, he covers it up again with the sleeve, turning his sight on purpose as to avoid looking at it any more. It implies a much too painful reminder of who he is these days, what he is doing. Everything about him just makes him stir in agony and shiver when he’s alone, or at night trying to get some sleep. 

He hates it. He hates the moment he decided to befriend known Death Eaters at school, which was the straw that broke the camel’s back with Lily. He hates the stupid and irrational way he acted back then, which he can’t escape now from. He hates that now he is forced to stay close to the Dark Lord on the verge of a war, taking part of massacres he finds no interest or joy in, threatening innocent people, casting the Dark Mark more times that he’d ever wished to, being on a side where no-one wants him to be. Half of the Death Eaters want him dead because of his proximity to Albus Dumbledore; the other half want him to kill the Headmaster, the biggest thread alive against the Dark Lord, and then take the great pleasure to kill him. 

Everything, as usual, comes down to Lily, and he is swamp with another wave of pain that sends shivers down his spine. 

He misses her so much. And he wants to tell her. He so desperately wants, needs, to. Three words that’d change the world for him, that’d explain everything. Those seven dantesque years at Hogwarts, the truly underserved treatment he directed at Lily. Why he lost touch with her and started being in contact with known Death Eaters. Why he is now a Death Eater himself, quite close to the Dark Lord, running for him important errands that he hates. Why he is willing to go to War against his childhood best friend and lover, fighting the wrong side. Why he’s risking his neck everyday of his life ever since he joined the Death Eaters. He first did it in order to try to protect Lily. Now he’s here on Dumbledore’s orders, spying the Dark Lord, as well as spying Dumbledore and the same Order of the Phoenix. And though he’s doing a marvelous job playing both sides, Albus being the only one person who knows the truth, revealing to him and to Lord Voldemort just the enough information to keep being a valuable Death Eater without screwing up much of the Order’s missions, both sides consider him a traitor: he’s not even trusted at the Order nor at Hogwarts, and if he hasn’t been killed yet is only thanks to --or because of-- Dumbledore.

But it’s worth it. Thanks to him, Albus could tip Lily to go into hiding before her child was born. Albus hasn’t told him anything else about her, which all in all is quite understandable, wether she’s still hiding somewhere far away, or she’s safe. He only knows her child was born already, since it’s well into August now; and for now, the Dark Lord hasn’t tried to locate the baby. It’s not that easy, when Lily and her husband --he’s still unable to even think of his name-- took a Secret Keeper, and He needs to find that person before he makes a move against the child. And considering that the Secret Keeper has to be Sirius, the only real choice in the matter, who hasn’t been seen in almost as long as the Potters, and who’s an impressive wizard, it won’t be easy to find him, let alone get from him the information the Dark Lord so desperately wants. Despite everything, Snape knows quite well how faithful that dog is to Lily, and therefore, her husband and child. 

This realization should be in some degree enough to make him feel calm and reassured, that Lily’s safe, that he’s doing a good job, however he doesn’t feel like that at all. He won’t breathe freely till Voldemort’s gone. And all in all, he’s not too keen to see it happen: according to the prophecy, her child could be the defeater of the Dark Lord, yes, but that’d involve, inevitably, obviously, both the kid and her mother, and there’s nothing written on her destiny. He doesn’t wish to push her luck, which after all, can’t be that much. They lost touch after going to Hogwarts, she was subjected to Potter and his friend’s bullying for years and still, years later she started going out with him and they got married, shortly after Lord Voldemort killed her parents. And then had the genius idea to have a child, which had to be cursed even before being born. No, luck hasn’t been on her side, not a single moment in her life. She doesn’t deserve this. 

If he could do something else for her, anything at all, he would. Dumbledore wouldn’t let him, though; not even suggest to do something else, anything else, that could help her, much less try to contact her in any way. If Voldemort somehow knew he had talked to her, he would use him to get to Lily and her child. And that’s the one thing he can’t allow to happen. 

All of a sudden he finds himself in a much more crowded street, surrounded by wizards and witches that take absolutely no notice of him, rather being quite festive. Loud, happy conversations fill the air, couples and families, carrying bags full of purchased items, walking slowly down and up the street, apparently without noticing, either, the snow that’s falling from the sky and the snowflakes that stay on their heads, shoulders and robes before finally falling to the floor, already setting at a two-feet height. He’s somehow ended up in Diagon Alley, the place he probably should have avoided most right now. 

But all of a sudden he finds himself unable to move, breathe, or even think. He can't leave his dark corner. Not after having spotted in the middle of the crowd the prettiest red-headed woman leaving one of the stores of the street, smiling broadly, few bags on her hands, cheeks red with the cold and the loud laughter she can’t stop. The person that could, and actually can, light up the whole street, and the gloomy mood Severus is in, just with her musical laughter and angelical face. The one person his heart aches for. 

Though almost immediately his heart is feeling something else completely different. Anger, despair. What the hell is she doing here?, spats Severus, leaning closer to the wall. Between the darkness of the corner and his black robes, it’s highly unlikely someone notices him, but that’s not the point. Lily should be in hiding, for heaven’s sake, not out in Diagon Alley, completely unguarded, shopping. How can Dumbledore allow this? Why hasn’t he informed him? He could have spoken to Lord Voldemort, avoid any patrols on Diagon Alley tonight. 

It takes Severus a very long time to realize there is a reason for Lily to be here. Maybe not a good one, at least on his point of view, but he understands when he hears carol singers approaching from the corner on his right --though he only hears it, as he’s unable to keep his sight away from Lily for more than a couple seconds. It’s Christmas’ Eve. Of course Lily would undervalue the danger she is in to go shopping for the holidays. 

And a couple minutes later, Severus sees Lily’s not by herself at night in such a crowded place, though he wouldn’t exactly call his husband, an efficient guardian. He’s got his hands as full as Lily’s, one with a huge number of shopping bags, and on the other one--He doesn’t believe this. They’ve taken their baby. He looks as happy as his mother, gloating and cheering in the stupid Christmas costume they’ve put him in, marveling everyone that crosses by. That is, except Snape. Of course the idea of going out on Christmas’ Eve, despite Lord Voldemort’s threat, had to be Potter’s; there’s no way smart-ass, sensitive, cautious, Lily would have agreed to it without the bloody and stupid persuasion of that husband of hers. Even if he can’t step out and stop them for himself, ordering them to go home, he has to inform Albus of this, so he’ll put them under magical house arrest or something, make sure they don’t ever try something this stupid, crazy and dangerous. They’re pushing their luck way too much. 

The family, radiating happiness as every other person on the street, start walking towards some other shop. Severus hesitates for a few seconds, but unable to stop himself, he ends up following them, or rather following her, not having the strength to leave her sight now that she's just a few feet from him, telling himself he’s just doing so to keep them safe, in case they met some other less friendlier Death Eater, or ran in any other kind of trouble. 

He keeps an eye on the three of them for who knows how much. At least a couple hours must have passed since he’s spotted him, when someone else approaches the happy family. They haven’t stopped babbling, chattering, giggling or laughing for a second since Snape has been following them, the streets are much emptier, darkened, silent now, and yet they don’t seem to see the menace of the figure slowly but gradually getting closer to them. Disbelieving what he’s seeing, Snape reaches for his wand, ready to attack in case Potter keeps on being completely unaware of their surroundings, and proves himself to be, once more, not capable of keeping Lily safe, much less, keep her at all. He waits until the figure is barely six feet away from the couple and then, when Potter hasn’t yet acknowledge his presence, raises his wand; still hidden in the shadows, streets almost emptied as everyone is going home or staying inside the cafés, he doubts no-one will be able to discern where the spell came from. And even if someone does, he’ll be out of there long before he or she comes near the alley he’s hiding at. 

Potter’s voice, however, stops his actions and thoughts. “Wormtail, hey. Here you are. You done with your Christmas shopping?” 

The other figure takes off the hood that was covering his head and is shown to be, indeed, Peter Pettigrew. It hasn’t been a surprised or random meeting; he knew Lily and his husband would be outside tonight. How come he didn’t stop them? Can’t no-one realize the danger they’re under, for Merlin’s sake? 

“Yeah, all done. You?” asks Wormtail. 

“Not quite”, replies James. His burst of laughter can be heard feet away from him and some pedestrians stop, turn and stare at him, though obviously, as usual, he doesn’t mind at all. He still is the child he looks like. “But could you take these home, for now?” he adds, offering Peter all of their bags. 

He stumbles with the load he’s been given, stuttering for a few seconds, clearly having not grown up, either, from the idiotic moron he was back at Hogwarts. But his actions only make Lily giggle, a soft, caring sound, as she raises her own wand and, casting a non-verbal spell, makes all the bags smaller, which can now fit easily into only one of Peter’s hands. 

“Thanks”, he says, sighing in relief. “Should I come back for more in a while?” 

“Yeah, that’d be nice.” 

“Thanks”, murmurs Lily, leaning in, to kiss Peter slightly on his cheek, before he Apparates from the street. Upon his disappearance, Lily and James share a look, full of love, cross their arms, their baby resting on Potter’s free arm, and they keep on walking. However, Severus hardly notices any of this. He’s frozen on the alley, unable, now, to follow the blissful couple resume their shopping. He shouldn’t have seen this. He really shouldn’t have been here, or followed them, or seen this scene. His mind is only partially focused on Lily’s kiss to Peter, one he’d very much like to receive, but instead the fact that Peter has Apparated with that ease, going “home”. He shouldn’t have heard that. He should have gone straight to Voldemort and give him the errand he’d demanded. 

Such a simple, innocent phrase, yet such a definite, charging, final, sentence to death. “Home”. The Potter’s. Where Lily and James, are presumably, still hiding from Voldemort. And Peter shouldn’t, couldn’t, be able to Apparate from and to that house if he wasn’t their Secret Keeper. What the hell is going on in their minds? How are they outside on this night, how is Peter their Secret Keeper? How come they’re not locked up at their safe location, all their trust put in Sirius, and Black hidden just like he’s supposed to be? Why hasn’t no-one told him this change of plans? 

Reasoning it all, he gets that this idea was quite a moment of imagination. No-one, not even himself after seeing the scene he’s just witnessed, would believe they made Peter, of all people, their Secret Keeper. Voldemort would obviously go after a much more skilled, and trusted, friend, rather than the weak, frightened, clumsy Pettigrew. But that’s why it’s so perfect, because of its simplicity. 

And now he’s blown it all over. He can’t go to Voldemort with this information. He can’t betray Lily, nor undo everything he’s tried to do for the last couple of years. Thank Merlin he’s good at Occlumency, or the Potters’d be dead this same evening; he just needs to take some time before meeting the Dark Lord, pretend, as best as he can, that he saw nothing, and just spent some time at his place at Spinner’s End instead of wandering around Diagon Alley. Probably there isn’t a witness to discredit him; he would have noticed. 

So he turns on his heels, sighing deeply, trying to place them again. There aren’t now there many families wandering around and he spots them quite easily. Well, the baby’s delightful squeal is quite unmistakable. 

They must be walking in and out of shops for another hour maybe, with Peter doing his occasional appearance for taking bags and bags to their house. Every time Pettigrew gets close by, Severus just turns around to avoid looking at him, knowing the more he sees that man, the harder will it be later to erase him from his memory. 

Contrary to his own feelings, the happiness of the family seems to linger and keep on without a second of waver, which, in all honesty, doesn’t cease to amaze Severus. They do look happy. As much as he hates himself for granting that, he has to concede that Potter still has that unknown magic spell on Lily, that keeps her close to him, happy with him and their baby. At one point, actually, he sees them happier than he’s ever imagined Lily could be. When leaving one store in particular --he doesn’t really care of which shops they come in and out from--, Lily the first one, her baby cries for her and she turns to see the child with his tiny arms extended towards her, asking her to hold him for a while. Lily mimics his gestures, but doesn’t come any closer to her baby; instead, Potter just leaves the child standing on the street, just a couple feet away from his mother. The kid, with steady steps (though his father keeps both hands merely inches away from him, in case he slipped on the ice), walks right into Lily’s arms. Those few steps are received with a round of applause and cries of joy, as Lily embraces him tightly once and holds him up in the air, all of them cheerful and looking as if nothing wrong was hovering on the horizon. 

Soon after that, the child dozes off in his mother’s arms, who immediately makes sure he’s well covered with his clothes. Lily and Potter’s conversation grows quieter now, trying not to wake the child, though their giggles are a constant. So it’s reasonable that when Pettigrew reappears, half an hour later, Lily makes him take the child home; and as all of them seem too anxious with this decision, leaving the child with only one almost-responsible adult figure, Potter accompanies Pettigrew home too. And then, Lily’s all alone in the street, still staring at the place where her husband and child disappeared from. 

This seems like an excellent moment to Severus to step in, reveal himself and have a nice and long chat with Lily. He almost takes the first step towards her, readying himself for the tough conversation he’s facing himself with, but he’s frozen when he sees Lily’s face again. She still has that cheerful mood on, despite her husband is long gone. It almost looks like she’s missing him already, as if that were possible after less than a minute. But for whatever reason she’s looking so gorgeous, he doesn’t have the strength to break her heart once again, not with everything she must be feeling and suffering these days, and deprive her of a single moment of happiness. He just can’t do it, much less when he sees her smile broadening slightly when she turns on her heels and almost runs towards this specific shop, as if she’d been waiting to be alone to run this particular errand. 

And it’s obvious as soon as he sees the shop she gets in, that this one present isn’t for Lily herself but yet another present for her husband. A shop of broomsticks and Quidditch supplies is so unlike Lily than trying to tie up Voldemort with real, affectionate love for somebody other than himself. Severus stays in front of the shop, looking through the glass, knowing Lily is too focused on whatever she’s buying now to see him, too focused talking to the shop assistant and checking different types of items being shown to her, asking in return some quiet questions. Snape can’t stop himself from staring at her for a very long time, taking in every small detail of her that has changed from his memories: every look, specter of color of her hair, gesture, frown in her eyes, delicate and gracious movement of her hands. Leaving out the shop she is in right now, this is exactly how Severus remembered Lily. How she was before going to Hogwarts: cheerful, gorgeous, cordial and kind, fun,... This is what he’s missed so badly, and this is why he’s doing all the wrong things, for the right reasons. 

He once thought about what he’d see if he ever faced the Mirror of Erised. And the answer was simple, really. He knew he’d see one of two things. The first possibility, just himself standing there, exactly as he is, how he looks like, how he acts like, but with one small, yet enormous difference: without the Dark Mark on his forearm. Without ever having taken the stupidest decision and actions of befriending Death Eaters and then becoming one himself; staying on the right side, with Lily, fighting with and for her. The second possibility, which is proving to be quite right, is what he’s got right in front of his eyes: Lily. Not Lily with him, not Lily leaving her husband and living with him, not Lily ever meeting, much less loving, James Potter. Just, Lily Evans. The one she used to be, like it used to be, so many years ago, before Hogwarts, before everything went wrong and they grew old apart. That’s what he’s always wanted, right from the beginning: for Lily Evans to be a happy woman and have a long, full life filled with joy. That's the primarily, only reason why he's doing everything he's doing now. Because of one angle called Lily Evans, who deserves much more than this life has to offer. And right now, right there, watching all by himself what his true dream would have been, he knows he's doing the right thing, and that he'll keep on doing it, even from the darkness, even when Lily won't ever know about it. Everything will be worth it when the war ends, with her alive, safe and sound. That's everything that matters. Dumbledore promised to him he could do it, as long as he kept close to Voldemort. A small price to pay to keep the heart of the only person he loves, beating a millennia more beats. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm personally not a strong defender of Severus Snape. Though I believe his actions made him a great and brave man, I don't truly believe it can condone the way he behaved and acted throughout the whole series. I'm sorry if this disappoints some of you readers out there, just reminding you that this is purely for recreational purposes. Thanks for reading anyway.


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry's first birthday with his parents and the Marauders (Wormtail included). Such a special occasion couldn't happen without his godfather's presence, who's currently AWOL after what they have to assume was an Order mission...

James and Sirius lying on the floor with the baby, goofing around and acting worse than the actual toddler; Wormtail playing along sometimes, others just picking up toys and mending the mess they leave behind; Moony and Lily staring over bemused and joyfully, a bit more decorously, but totally failing to resist the urge and joining only too often the three kids on the playground, martial court imposing only at meal, napping, bathing and sleeping times--schedule sometimes shared by Prongs and Padfoot as well. That's the usual picture you'd find at the potter's when the four Marauders at present. And that's exactly the routine that's taking place right now--even if it is ten to twelve. Post meridiem. 

The toddler wouldn't have had it any other way being as it is, his birthday, and he couldn't get to see his godfather on such a special day. Four in the afternoon James and Lily gave up on putting Harry to sleep altogether; they just knew his crying and bawling would never stop until he got a kiss, a hug and a present from Sirius as well. Never mind the other dozen presents he's received all they long by friends and family, including a Quidditch-theme based pajamas, a xylophone, many coloring books and a cat stuffed animal--all Harry wanted to see and all that he cared about was Sirius, to his parents biggest dismay and bemusement. 

And the poor man only got home quarter to eleven, stressed out, looking horribly exhausted, but him too, only wanting to see his godson. The discussion on his uneven breath, limping step, obvious injuries and beat eyes had to be postponed as soon as Harry got a glimpse of the man, demanding his imminent affection and undivided attention. Apparently, time has proven that the godfather's best medical treatment also included the toddler's cheerfulness and extraordinary energy--and spoiled-brat--this late at night. 

More than an hour later, neither of them shows any signs of tiredness, nor boredom, as Sirius has red him a whole children’s story, a Muggle one about a princess, a ball and a lost shoe, before giving up to the kid’s demands and showing his gift--a toddler’s magical broomstick, which has been celebrated more by the father, if possible, than the child. 

Joy’s ended briefly, though: as soon as the kid wanted to try mounting on it and no-one could say no to him, his father included. Event though the broomstick hovers, more than flying, two feet from the ground and isn’t that faster than an adult human running, James has had a hard time doing like Lily, Remus or Peter, seated easily on the couches and armchairs; James was too anxious and beyond the first five minutes he’s been following Harry around, three feet from him on the broomstick, to make sure he didn’t get hurt. Apparently he’s all for practicing Quidditch at all times of the day, at any season the year, but he will put the foot down when that possibility comes down to his own child, even when he knows there are four adults in the room that’d never let anything wrong come to the kid--a simple “Spongify” has actually been cast all around the living room, making the floor and furniture soft and bouncy, just in case. 

Moreover, the adults make Harry giggle--and make fun of James on the same process--as often as they can, when the kid passes by close enough to them, Lily, Sirius or Remus would grab him and redirect him, grabbing the broomstick slightly, as to make him get height or turn to another direction completely. Taking advantage of the situation, James now and then also takes Harry from the broomstick, raising him high in the air, which always gets the kid clapping and laughing every time, without fail, until his demands of returning to the flying device are too hard to turn a deaf ear to. 

“Gotcha!” yells James again when he manages to grab him. 

This time, however, Harry doesn’t react in any way. 

Upon this extraordinary event, everyone reacts instinctively--the kid’s giggling and joy were already an expected occurrence. Everyone stands from their spot, Remus giving a hand to Sirius, who’d been lying on the floor, and surround James at once, ten hands appearing out of nowhere to check Harry’s condition. 

James’s the calmest of them, resting Harry on his right arm, holding the broomstick on the other. 

“He’s just asleep,” he whispers to everybody. 

A bit too late--he could have informed everyone before they panicked, they scowl, fighting the urge to hit James and managing only because he’s got the kid. And also because despite knowing such information first-hand, he looks as anxious as the next one. 

“I think that’s our queue,” says Lily, warmly, calmed, taking Harry. 

Her husband nods and lays the broomstick on the couch, but instead of staying in the living room, since Lily’s more than capable to put Harry to sleep on her own, he follows Lily up to the nursery. One year later and he still can’t let them off their sight without feeling uneasy. 

Behind him, Remus and Sirius follow suit, whereas Peter heads for a brief errand inside the kitchen. Doesn’t linger for too long: when he comes back, Lily, James, Sirius and Remus have just changed Harry into his new pajamas and put him, sound asleep, on his crib--way more hands than needed for such tasks. 

Peter leans against the doorframe, staring at the family picture, until Lily notices his presence and without erasing the smile on her face, reaches a hand out to him, so he steps forward, closing the circle around the crib; James and Lily embraced in a tight hug in the center of the circle, wishing the same as every other night--to be able to see him grow one more year. 

They don’t budge for some long minutes. Everyone’s mesmerized staring at the child sleeping, his tiny chest raising and lowering, finally giving them a rest, a soft lullaby playing in the darkness broken by the dim light from downstairs. Certainly they could spend a whole night standing here, leaning over the crib, humming along the child’s melody--four of them can vouch they’ve done so in the past year, either standing watching over the toddler, or falling asleep with him on the carpeted floor or the armchair. Anywhere is suitable--anything can be done for this baby. 

But tonight’s not the night for it. Lily’s the first one to snap out of outer space and turns her face to her husband, who silently looks down on her too. They hug tighter in a deep sigh right before he pats her hand reassuringly and break the embrace, checking they didn’t wake Harry in that silent gesture. Nevertheless, everyone else notices and grudgingly, looking now and then over their shoulders, leave the room and the baby--a step a bit too harsh on the couple, who take longer to leave the nursery. 

Remus, Peter and Sirius opt for give them some privacy and head downstairs on their own, but don’t have much time--they don’t get the chance to sit down again at any comfortable place on sight. Apparently, James and Lily’s parenting duties aren’t over yet. 

“Don’t you dare,” they warn from the stairs before Sirius drops onto the couch. “Everyone up and to the kitchen,” they command. 

Actually it’s just Sirius they want to speak to, but Remus and Peter, despite their tiredness, also want to hear the conversation, so they reunite inside the kitchen, the safest place to talk, considering Harry’s light sleep. 

Deep sighs, exhausted and a bit irritated faces, the four men and one woman sit around the kitchen table at the same time a first-aid kit, summoned by Evans, lands on the countertop. 

“That’s not really necessary,” promises Sirius, knowing it’s meant for him, as he rests his head on the kitchen table, wishing for a horizontal surface to sleep on. “Minnie patched me up.” 

“So you were in an Order mission,” states James, a bit rudely, resting close to his brother, enough to bother him and make him stand straight. 

“Obviously,” scowls Padfoot, both for the absurdity of the statement and the annoyance from his brother. 

“Well, sorry, Pads, but you don’t call that often anymore to tell us what the hell’s going on,” replies James, in a voice that suggests it wasn’t really an apology. 

Sirius rolls his eyes, considering hitting James now that the kid’s nowhere to be seen. 

“I’m not having this discussion again,” he sighs. “It’s safer this way.” 

“And, silly me, I thought Harry’d be safer with all his family around him, alive. But what would I know, right? I’m only his father.” 

“James, please,” begs Lily, who, in spite of agreeing with her husband’s thinking, isn’t comfortable with this line of confrontation. On the other hand, it’s almost impossible, even for her, to stop a quarrel between the two brothers. 

“And you two named me his godfather. That gives me a saying on the vote.” 

“It would if we actually got around to discuss things!” exclaims James, throwing his arms in the air. In response to that, Lily places a calming hand on his shoulder, which has little to no effect. 

“No,” snaps Sirius. “It’s better this way.” 

“ _It is not! _” yells James.__

And this time, his wife agrees with him and interjects, keeping her voice down: 

“Pads, you have to understand. Hiding things, keeping secrets from each other. . .” 

“You didn’t like the full disclosure stipulation some time back--” 

“At Hogwarts,” scowls Lily, not trying to keep peace anymore--doesn't have that kind of patience, “where most of your secrets involved some mischief I had no interest in being in the loop of.” 

“Okay,” begs Remus, raising his hands to make everyone who was about to say something shut up. “I think we’re missing the point here.” 

“I absolutely agree,” confirms Lily, grabbing the first-aid kit and dropping it in front of Sirius, proving wordlessly her point. 

“You don’t trust Minnie’s handiwork?” demands Sirius, still not budging, eyeing wearily the kit. 

Luckily for everyone, it’s Remus who speaks, trying to keep peace. 

“You haven’t exactly been resting since you got here,” he says. “Your injuries might have reopened.” 

“They haven’t,” promises Sirius, sending a hand to his ribs, the other trying to keep Evans at an arm’s distance. 

“Sirius,” scowls James, head dropped, without even looking at his brother as he talks straight to him, that being more effective. “It’s going to happen either way. Give in, _now_.” 

He dares to challenge his sibling a few more long seconds--but then Sirius gives up, dropping his head, at the same time James raises his eyes. Lily, ever so carefully, takes off Sirius’s shirt to show the group of friends his injuries--way too many. A general scowl escapes from every spectator, as Lily proceeds to assess the medical attention he got from Prof. McGonagall before grabbing antiseptic and some bandages. 

They all stay silent while Lily works, except from Sirius, who now and then gasps or lets out a low, painful scowl--but one single piercing look from Evans and the patient doesn’t even try to move away from her care nor insists on her to forget about it all, grabbing onto the chair or the table instead, until James offers his hand, a gesture Sirius would never refuse. 

Only when Lily’s done treating Sirius' injuries and she’s washing her hands on the kitchen sink, Moony gathering the kit for her, does the conversation resume--by the wrong person, probably. 

“Jesus, Pads,” scowls James as his brother puts the shirt on again, “what the hell happened to you?” 

And the answer isn’t the most appropriate one either. “Don’t tell me what I can’t explain,” says Sirius. 

“Merlin’s--You don’t usually come from a mission this hurt,” roars James, signaling the whole of Sirius’s body, from head to toes. “We have the right to know.” 

“Fine!” scowls Sirius finally in a yell, tired of drama and arguing, though he takes a couple minutes, till he sees James is breathing again, to speak. “ _Fine_. Things are getting ugly, guys,” he states sullenly, looking at them all in turn. “The Death Eaters attacks are increasing--or the number of Death Eaters are rising insanely. After Frank and Alice Longbottom’s--” 

“Tell us something we don’t know,” snaps James. 

“I was compromised,” Sirius finally confesses, eyes closed. 

And though he’s finally managed to utter the words he was expected to say, his sentenced is followed by a long, tensed silence. All around him his friends stare at him in mocking, horrified disbelief. 

“You. Were. Compromised,” Remus repeats very slowly, as if hoping the facts will change depending on how he says those words. 

“How?” demands Peter when he can react. 

“By whom?” adds James. 

“What happened?” presses Lily when Sirius isn’t fast enough to give answers to them. 

“We were,” Sirius specifies. “The mission. They were waiting for us, the right time, the right place.” 

“It happens sometimes,” says Moony, trying to reason things. “The information’s bogus and--” 

“No, I’m telling you, that was not it,” Sirius insists, raising his voice to make them see reality, waving his hands dramatically in the air out of exasperation. “The intel was legit, only--it was a bait. They wanted to take Minnie, Moody and me out. It was very well planned. We were completely unaware, unprepared, outnumbered--” 

“You were lucky to make it out of it alive,” James whimpers sullenly. 

In spite of not needing any kind of confirmation, Sirius dares to look up at his brother, hurt in their eyes, frightened and shaken, before nodding, just once. Enough said for everyone, especially James. Before the whole house lights up on fire because of James’s accidental spontaneous combustion, Lily steps forward, placing a hand on her husband’s chest and another one on Sirius’ shoulder. 

“At least you’re here now,” she whispers. 

She gets a nod as a response and, needing more affection, she leans in to kiss Sirius gently on the cheek. James’s deflated a bit, the enough to feel the tiniest bit stab on the stomach and force to remember that these daily, affectionate gestures are normal amongst siblings within a family. 

Lily hasn’t even noticed as something else altogether catches her eye. 

“Tea’s ready, everyone,” she says. “Sirius, do you need any tranquillizers or pain killers?” 

“No, thank you, Evans--I’ll sleep like a baby, alright,” says the man. 

She nods, back facing Sirius and the rest of the lot, as she pours the tea--prepared by Peter beforehand--in five cups while they all keep discussing the situation around the kitchen table. 

“How badly were Minnie and Moody injured?” asks Peter, a bit shaken. 

“They’re alright, Madame Pomfrey patched the two of them without a problem.” 

“So you got the worst part of the attack,” Remus sums up. 

As Sirius doesn’t say a thing, nor confirming or denying the accusation, the answer’s obvious to one and all, as well as the scowls and terrified whimpers it raises. 

“Wouldn’t be the first time that happens,” he replies. 

“You were the youngest in the group,” snaps James. “You shouldn’t have tried to be the hero.” 

“I wasn’t,” yells Sirius. “Despite what you might think of me, dear brother, out there I am focused on the job. If I'm a target is thanks to the nutjob that's unfortunately related to me by blood. Around here, you’re the only one who still tries to be something he’s not, Prongs.” 

“Come on, guys,” says Remus, begging for a relatively quiet and calmed discussion. “Please.” 

“All I’m saying is that it could have happened to anyone and that I’m usually the number one target where my cousin’s concerned,” Sirius explains. “Thank you, darling,” he says, sweetening his voice, as Lily hands him a boiling cup of tea and he winks at her--returning to his usual self. 

After they hand around the cups of tea, it’s quiet for some seconds while they wait for the tea to cool down a bit, though they all share the same frightening thoughts and in the end, it’s Remus who puts the card on the table, after taking a long sip of tea. 

“This wouldn’t be the first time something like this has happened. You know, an ambush.” 

Silence is, once again, a confirmation--everyone’s thought the same. 

“Yeah, we know, Moony,” Sirius agrees. 

“At least the last three Order missions went south--there were more Death Eaters than we’d expected, or we were discovered, or we ended up in an unwanted battle and lost someone. And then there’re the attacks on Order members--Frank and Alice being the most recent ones.” 

Though they can’t really blame him for listing their latest mistakes, the history lesson wasn’t needed either, as they all remember such events. The ones he mentioned happened only in the last four months. 

“Guys,” whispers Sirius finally, head dropped, grabbing his tea cup tightly without a single regard for the warmth. “I fear. . . I fear there’s a mole.” 

“ _Pads,_ ” scoffs Lily immediately, that being the instinctive reaction, but doesn’t finish the sentence, nor no-one backs on her. 

If she were asked, and the four Marauders do so with a single, meaningful look, she’d confess she’s had the same feeling more than once throughout the last months. 

“Come on,” scoffs Peter, as outraged as Lily herself. 

They don’t let him finish either. 

“There _must_ be,” exclaims Sirius, hitting the table with his fist. “These latest missions gone south. . . It’s more than chance. Or a really bad luck streak.” 

“But who from the Order--?” 

No-one interjects him this time and however, he doesn’t finish the sentence either. Sirius, James, Remus, Lily, would be unable to give a straight answer; mainly because no-one’s got the faintest idea. But the worse fears, everyone’s sharing them. 

“Have you talked to--” 

“Dumbledore?” finishes Sirius, raising an eyebrow at his brother. 

A question and a gesture that gets scowls and yells all around the table. Understandable, yet, his actions also make sense, after all. 

“You _can't_ be serious!” 

"Why, I _am_ Sirius," he says, the old-time joke that he'll never quit using, although it was completely uncalled for given the time, place and the subject of their discussion. 

“Please, we can’t mistrust the few allies we’ve got. And specially, Albus!” 

“Calm down, everybody,” demands Moony. As appalled as he is by the suggestion, he’s the one who can remain cool. “Panicking won’t help.” 

They all try to follow his instructions, knowing it’s the best they can do--breathe in deeply and take a couple seconds to ponder, calmly, rationally. Something that still doesn’t work for James. 

“We should summon an Order meeting,” he suggests. 

“Yeah, sure, ‘cause that would force the traitor to speak up. Great plan,” states Sirius sarcastically. “I can see why you’re not leading the Order yet. Don’t even try to suggest being the leader should Albus die.” 

“Come on, Pads, it’s just common sense. If there’s a mole, we all should be alerted. Someone could die next time we’re on the field--” 

“Prongs, get your head out of your ass.” 

“I’m afraid to say I agree with Padfoot on this one,” says Remus, head dropped, till by the silence that follows his words he realizes what he’s said. “Not--the literal part, come on, be serious,” he yells, trying to mend things. “Sharing this idea with the other Order members would only lead to panic and chaos amongst our closest friends--two things we cannot allow amongst us.” 

“Moony, I see your point, really,” promises James, “but WHAT THE HELL--” 

“Harry,” hushes Lily, sending a finger to her lips and looking up at the nursery. 

In spite of the situation they all take a couple seconds to make sure they didn’t manage to wake up the baby with their discussion. Then, as if they’d given speaking time to everyone, it’s James who resumes his point, at a much lower voice. 

“What are we supposed to do in the meantime?!” he demands in an exasperated whisper, leaning in to look straight into Moony’s eyes. 

The man sighs and seems to shrink under that glare. He drops his head again and speaks like that, slowly, each word hurting him, without daring to look up at his closest, dearest family. 

“Check and double-check the Intel. Keep the information as close as possible. Trust those who can be trusted. Be careful out there.” 

It’s a kind of advice that doesn’t come as a surprise--they’ve heard something like this multiple times before from any of the Order’s most veteran members, but they notice the slight difference this time. It’s more urgent, more important, to make it happen--it’s vital, to all of them. 

To stress it out, Remus reaches a hand to Peter, then to Lily; who takes her husband’s hand, who in turn grabs Padfoot’s, who closes the small circle by holding Peter’s. The circle of trust and loyalty is hereby completely without a word--simply a warm, affectionate link connecting them and a long look between each other.

They finally break it to drink their tea, their moods drastically different from when they first grabbed their cups, sullen, depressed, fearing to go out there again. After the first sip, Sirius scowls, dropping his cup, shaking his head; but by the grin on his lips, it seems it has nothing to do with what they’ve discussed. They don’t have any more strength for it now. 

“Dear Lord, Evans, what do you understand by ‘No’? I needn’t the pain killers.” 

She grins behind her cup, winking at her sibling. 

“The same thing you understood by that back at Hogwarts. I appreciate your concern and value your suggestion, but I’ll keep on doing whatever the hell I want to do.” 

In an impossible situation, the five adults sitting on stools around the kitchen table just--chuckle at her answer, because it’s just too honest and snappy, a simple summary of what their lives used to be, a simple remnant of what they’ve lost by graduating.

“That’s a very good definition of your years at Hogwarts,” chuckles Remus. 

“Hope you’re including yourself too in that plural, Moony,” scoffs Sirius, returning to their most usual quarrel and bickering, more common amongst them than discussing matters of a Wizarding World, even if the War’s omnipresent in their thoughts. 

“Yeah. And we hope you finish your tea,” warns Lily, never forgetting what’s important. 

“All of it,” James stresses out. “Afterwards we can go to sleep.” 

Lily reaches a hand to caress James’s shoulder. Though that part’s obvious, for their best friend’s well-being, there’s another reason why they want Moony, Wormtail and Padfoot sleeping here tonight. A more selfish one, maybe. They’ve had a hard time sleeping on their own lately, what with a child in danger to take care of at night when they can’t get their eyes off the toddler. But with these three at home, their family, under their roof, protecting each other, knowing tomorrow morning they’ll wake up to find them still breathing on their beds, they’ll be able to sleep with both eyes closed.


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First minutes of James and Lily Potter's afterlife, starting seconds after they're both killed, till they start realizing what's really happened this fateful night and the consequences of Wormtail's treason.

Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, Lily and their little Prongslet. James’d thought he had figured out the equation for perfection and happiness. That those five elements would be able to bring joy and happiness to him no matter the circumstance; that it’d mean they’re home, wherever they were, whatever may happen. 

And still his small little part of heaven doesn’t last that long. All of a sudden everything disappears. James finds himself alone in an abrupt change of development. Everything that surrounded him is gone--the room, Lily, the good mood, the Marauders, the music, the laughter, the amazing smell, the promise of a family, the war--and for a moment, all he sees is green. He’s swimming in a pool of light, sparkling green light. And suddenly a face appears right in front of him, a faded, pale, snake-like face, and the only sound is a humorless, cold laughter. He holds his breath and his heart skips a beat--as if he still needs air to breathe or has a beating heart--as he contemplates his bigger fear in front of him. Not that he wouldn’t dare to confront him; he’d be willing to face ten Dark Lords on his own, if Voldemort’s presence here didn’t mean that one simple, obvious yet terrifying truth: And, if it hasn’t happened just yet, neither will Peter, which after all would be better than the Longbottom’s fate.

 _Peter_ , he thinks in despair. _What happened to you? What did He do to you? Will I be seeing you soon?_

Gradually, his surroundings shape themselves, but yet it takes him a couple of minutes to figure out he’s at someplace very similar to Potter Manor, only too light and perfect, dreamlike. After a few more seconds he recognizes his old room, only because of the Gryffindor posters on the walls, the lack of textbooks on the bookshelves, his bed, and his old broomstick lying on a corner. But his old room never looked like this, not once, not even two seconds after Tiffy had tried to clean it up. If he needed any more evidence, here it is. He is indeed dead. 

“Lily?” he asks in a whisper, looking around. He couldn’t bare to be away from her, not after what’s just happened at Godric’s Hollow. Even if, were she not to show up, it’d mean she’d have somehow survived, which would be the best and happiest piece of news he’d received in weeks, though he doubts that’s even possible. Lily couldn’t Apparate from inside the house and, even if she’d been able to shut down the wards in such short time, she couldn’t have taken Harry with her. And she would have never left their baby behind, not even to safe herself. 

He suddenly hears Lily's shriek crying his name, coming from someplace very close. He turns around and sees Lily on the doorframe of his room, like he’s never seen her before, frightened look on her face, with both her arms extended at a strange position, as if to embrace herself, or James, but had forgotten how to move. Upon seeing her, James runs to his wife's side, eyes filled with fat tears. “Oh Merlin, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry...” Lily leans towards him, hiccuping, as James pronounces that one sentence over and over again. Now, this is something he won’t ever be able to forgive himself for. 

“Harry,” whispers Lily a few minutes later. “He is not here, James. Where is he? What happened to him?” 

James looks down to his wife’s hands, understanding now that she was aching for their baby son, she was waiting to embrace him again. But they don’t hear his crying or giggles, or see him lying on the floor, nor there is any crib anywhere at James’ old bedroom. 

“Where is he?!” demands Lily in a shriek. Starting a hysterical sob she falls to the floor and James, still holding his wife to his chest, follows, unable to pronounce a word, still waiting for a crib to appear. 

“It’s okay,” says a new voice. Fleamont Potter has appeared out of nowhere, as if he had just crossed the wall on their right. Which actually leads to the elderly couple bedroom, where it’d be logic to find them. If they could actually apply logic to anything that’s happening around them. “Lucky or not, you won’t find your son here.” 

“Dad,” says James, too thunderstruck by what’s just happened to his family, the surroundings, his father presence, his sentence and well, everything, to say something more affectionate or to even think to move away from Lily in order to embrace once again his father. “What do you mean?” 

“Merlin, James, I thought you’d inherited the wisdom gene in the Potter lineage,” chuckles his father, getting closer to them. 

“This is not the time to joke, Fleamont,” reprimands a woman’s new voice, walking till she’s right besides her husband, a stern look on her eyes. Though afterwards she sends an affectionate and warm look at James and Lily, whom only by that look can feel once again the love radiating from every cell of Euphemia. 

“No, it’s not, I’m sorry,” apologizes Fleamont at once. 

They both turn to look at the couple still crouched on the floor by the entrance, unable to move, both for the shock and the feeling of loss. Fleamont and Euphemia offer them their hands and James and Lily, still quite astonished, take them both and stand up, looking at each other, still not understanding. 

“What I meant,” resumes Fleamont with a deep sigh, “is that Harry’s not here ‘cause he is not dead.” 

“The Killing Curse--” 

“Surely it hit Harry, but it didn’t kill him,” explains Mrs. Potter. 

“How is that even--?” tries to demand Lily. 

“Don’t ask me, dear. As far as I know, he’d be the first one in the history of Magic to survive a Killing Curse cast directly at him.” 

“Maybe some day we’ll know. For now, I’m just happy our only grandchild is still alive,” whispers Euphemia. 

“Yes, certainly,” agrees Lily at once, feeling, of course, the same.

One exchanged look with James, he knows his wife is feeling exactly the same as he is: they hadn’t imagined a world without their child. They were willing to die with him, yes, and they both had vouched that they’d be happy to see his child grow up even if it wasn’t with them, but in a very somber thought, they hoped that if they died, Harry’d be with them. After all, what powers could Harry ever possibly had as a one-year-old? Being realistic, that’s how it should have happened. They can’t even begin to understand how he’s survived. And they already miss their baby so badly. 

“So he’s alive?” asks Lily, needing to at least, be sure of that. “Safe and sound?” 

“Just a scar on his forehead,” answers Euphemia. "A lightning bolt, the hand movement of the curse. Painful reminder of what's happened tonight, yes, but at least he's alive." 

James and Lily take a deep breath, needing a couple of minutes to let that really sink in. 

“Is there some way to see him?” requests Lily with a whisper, afraid that the answer might be negative. But instead, both Mr. and Mrs. Potters smile broadly back at them and Fleamont extends his hand once again towards her. 

“Come,” he says. 

Not that much insecure now, Lily takes hold of his father-in-law’s hand, as James does the same with her mother, and the elder couple close the circle holding their hands. Not a second later, they’re in another room, not a hair out of place--not even James’, thinks Lily, as obsessed with his hair as James himself. It’s a room both Lily and James recognize at first sight, even when it’s been completely destroyed by who knows what’s happened: Harry’s room in their house at Godric’s Hollow. But everything looks different from James’ old room, here the colors, furniture, spaces, night-time, seem real. As do Harry’s cries, in the crib, looking at the unmoving figure of his mother. 

Instinctively, James and Lily step forward towards the crib, but Fleamont stops them. 

“You can’t do anything,” he murmurs, sorrow in his voice. “You, James, are dead at the entrance of your house. Lily, you’re over here. You can’t hold him, or touch him, or talk to him, nor will he hear or see you. All you can do is step aside and watch.” 

“That’s the worst thing that could ever happen to a father,” whispers James, looking at his son broken-hearted, shivering with anger and pain. They are biologically obliged to take care of that kid. They’ve only been doing that for little more than a year --how can they suddenly stop, being their child right there, in front of them, bawling within their reach, watching the corpse of his mother, begging for food, or affection, or laughter, when they had promised to give him the happiest life possible? How could any parent live like this? 

“That’s what we both have been doing for the last couple of years, just being able to watch you, Sirius and Lily, dear. And Harry,” reminds Euphemia with sweet, broken voice. 

“That’s what being dead implies, kids,” adds Fleamont. 

These words finally struck James and Lily and they turn towards their parents with long faces, unable to refrain themselves. They form a tight circle again, a four-people embrace, arms crossed and in touch with everybody, as they all begin to cry softly. 

“It’s good to see you,” whispers Euphemia, caressing James’ cheek with her thumb and Lily’s hair with her other hand. “We weren’t expecting it to be this soon, but it sure is great to see you both again.” 

“We’ve missed you, Mom, Dad,” says James, leaning against his mother’s chest. 

“We have as well, dear. And we are very proud of Sirius and you two. We only wished you knew.” 

“We did,” assures Lily. 

“James, how in Merlin’s beard did you answer the door without your wand?” demands Fleamont, tense voice that shows within his own feelings. 

“I know it was stupid. I obviously wasn’t thinking. I’m so sorry. Let’s just hope Sirius has inherited Potter’s smart gene from you both.” 

“We're proud of you as it is, dear,” replies Euphemia. “And anyway, it’s all over now.” 

“I’ve got a feeling none of our kids inherited the smart gene after all,” retorts Fleamont. 

He’s stepped away from the embrace and is looking outside the windows. Euphemia, James and Lily, the last two still holding their hands tightly together, go and join him. The exterior street isn’t Church Lane from Godric’s Hollow, but neither James nor Lily worry about the laws of logic or physics when they recognize two of their best friends out there: Sirius and Peter. Once again, their surroundings are so different from the figures of their best friends that they don’t doubt for a minute that what they are watching is happening at this moment on the Earth. 

Sirius looks outraged and out of his mind, almost on the edge of hysterics, while Peter--he looks completely unharmed and safe. Alive and kicking. Not even a sign of physical torture. That’s all what James needs to understand what’s really happened tonight, or who knows for how long has this been going on. 

“NO!” he shrieks as he comprehends his friend’s treason. _“NO!_ ” 

Lily places a hand on his shoulder, trying to soothe him, despite knowing it’s an useless gesture, as she herself is hardly keeping her own yells back. James has to resist the urge, even stronger than before, when they saw their child, of going out there and hexing Peter himself, or punching him the traditional way, on the face; even when he knows he couldn’t do any of the sort. 

They can barely see Sirius’ and Peter’s bodies through the tears that fill their eyes, nor hear their discussion. And they’re sure there’s something wrong going on with their senses, because what they do hear, it doesn’t even make any sense. Peter’s shouting at the top of his lungs about treason, but Sirius’ treason, as many Muggles witnesses are gathering around them. What is he planning? None of those muggles’ testimony will ever be convincing enough in a trial at the Wizengamot, and everyone in the Order knows the truth. He should have escaped earlier; he has no chance at all against Sirius, not when he’s looking as ready to kill Peter as he was to kill Voldemort or Bellatrix in all the fights he engaged against Death Eaters. 

All of a sudden there’s a loud explosion. They can’t see a thing for a few minutes, till the blast evaporates, but by then they see all the muggles’ bodies scattered around the street, dead. Sirius looks unharmed, either because he was the one who cast the explosion, or he could protect himself in time despite the shock--he’s capable of doing both. After the blast, he looks around frantic, searching. Obviously looking for Peter; so he wasn’t the one who had cast the spell. Euphemia, Fleamont, James and Lily look around for Pettigrew as well, but besides Sirius and all the deceased muggles, there’s no-one else around. And they don’t hear anything, not even the steps from the man who has to be running with his tail between his legs, as if his life depended on it. Because it does. 

The thought of “tail between his legs” makes James come to think of Peter’s animagus form and the first one in the family to start looking for an actual animal, not a person, running away from the scene. Even in the fainting darkness, he can spot him. He knows him much too well. Or at least he thought he did. 

“There!” he shouts. He points at the other corner with his finger and all his family turns his head at once; barely seeing the small animal who’s running as fast as he can towards the darkness of the perpendicular alley. At the same time, James turns towards his best friend, who’s immobile, still in shock, and who will lose sight of Peter in merely seconds.

“Hey, Pads--! Pads!! Look over there, goddammit!! Don’t you see him?! Don’t you understand what he’s just done?! Come on, Pads!!” 

“James--” tries to reason Fleamont, but his son cuts him short with his desperate, frantic shouting, not believing his best friend is just standing there in the street surrounded by corpses. 

“Pads, for Merlin’s balls, move your lazy ass!! _Do something!!_ Don’t you see you’re going to be charged for killing all these muggles?!” Even when his family is trying to make him understand Sirius can’t hear any of his babbling, he seems willing to try it, as he’s shouting at the top of his lungs. “Follow Wormtail, Pads!! Wormatil is fleeing, Jesus Christ!! _Our murderer is getting away!!_ ” 

Suddenly they hear a laughter that freezes them all as they look at Sirius again. He’s holding something--a finger, they think. One of Peter’s fingers, a forefinger, to be precise, which seems to be the ultimate cause of Sirius’ outburst. Though it’s not a laughter like the ones they usually hear from Sirius, and they are used to hearing his laughter at all times, even at all the wrong ones, including when he was facing form Prof. Minnie or a scowl from the Potters or Lily, or facing Voldemort and his Death Eaters, or even trying to soothe his brother and sibling during Lily’s delivery. But this one’s not Sirius’ usual laughter, and that makes it all the more awry. It’s a humorless, frenzied, violent, hysterical laughter; the only reaction their best friend, brother and son has had after Wormtail’s scheme and escape. Seemingly, the only way he’s got to deal with everything that’s happened tonight. 

And it seems the night’s still not over yet. Suddenly the street is no longer empty, but Sirius is surrounded by people, wizards and witches dressed in robes. Fleamont, Euphemia, James and Lily recognize some of them: Ministry people. They take a look around and jump to the wrong, yet obvious conclusion: Sirius has killed those muggles. And he’s not yet in a situation in which he can defend himself, as he’s still laughing hysterically, not even stopping to listen to the Ministry workers demanding answers and later, taking his wand and reading him his charges. His laughter is still hanging in the air when five of them take Sirius away through Apparition, leaving the rest in charge of the scene and the muggles corpses. 

This time Lily, James, Euphemia and Fleamont have watched everything happening right before their eyes in complete silence, caused by the disbelief at the events that have just happened. A mass murder like this, the violation of the decree of the discretion use of Magic in front of muggles... It’s obvious to the four of them they are taking Sirius to Azkaban, and if he keeps acting like this, his testimony won’t be taken in consideration at the trial. And in the meantime, the real traitor has escaped, and when someone starts looking for him for the crimes they’re planning to attribute to Sirius, it’ll be too late. 

“That's. . .” murmurs Lily, but she can’t even finish the sentence. 

“Merlin,” curses Fleamont. “What--? What has just--?” 

" _Someone has to help him_ ," whispers Euphemia, almost desperate, her eyes never leaving the scene, as if waiting for her son to reappear. 

"We can't," remembers Fleamont with a scowl. They might have got used to it, but it doesn't mean they don't feel as useless as James and Lily did merely minutes ago. 

"The Order-- Someone--" 

“Yes, of course, don't worry," agrees James at once. "Dumbledore. And Remus,” croaks out. He sniffs and tries to choke back the tears before explaining himself. “They’ll know the truth. Maybe the Ministry won’t listen to Remus, but Dumbledore’ll be able to convince the Wizengamot of the truth. Sirius can’t go to Azkaban. He won’t go.”

Not after the hellish childhood he had with his horrible, abusive, neglectful parents, a crazy, pure-blood, mentally disabled and disturbed, obsessed family who Sirius ran away from. He doesn’t deserve this now, he won’t endure Azkaban. Merlin, at Hogwarts he wasn’t even able to conjure a Patronus because he had no remain of a single happy memory before meeting the Marauders.

“Even if I have to Apparate as a ghost or kill someone with any means I’ve got left, _I won’t let that happen._ ” 

No-one dares to answer back at him, all of them feeling somewhat the same, ready to rip off Peter's head off his shoulders if they ever come across him again, and to do something very much similar to any Minister who dares to send Sirius to Azkaban or to do something that stupid. 

“And. . . Harry?” dares to whisper Lily with her voice breaking at pronouncing their child’s name. Sirius was Harry’s godfather, he was supposed to take care of him in the event of James and Lily’s death, which has happened way earlier than anyone could’ve hoped for. 

“Don’t worry about that,” calms Fleamont, a bit more reassured after the shock of seeing one of his sons dead and the other one being taken to Azkaban. “You had quite a few good, faithful friends. Maybe _some_ weren’t,” he agrees as an afterthought, venom in his voice, looking ready to kill Pettigrew with his bare hands were he to appear there. “But you know any of them will gladly take your son, specially after what’s just happened to the both of you. He’ll be taken care of, you be assured of that.” 

“And considering, too, that Voldemort’s gone, Harry’s completely safe now,” adds Euphemia, smiling broadly for the first time since they’ve met again. “So he has a great life ahead of him, even if you’re not going to be a part of it. Everything will turn out fine.”

“Of course,” agrees James, looking quite more calm than before, even when nothing’s actually happened on Earth, soothed by his parents’ words. “It’ll be OK. Dumbledore will clear Sirius of the murder charges and he’ll take care of Harry, just as planned. Surely someone can stay with Harry in the meantime. And Remus will be able to help Sirius on the way. They are great uncles, they could be great parents for Harry. Sirius won’t go to Azkaban and Harry will find happiness in life.”

His last sentence sounds more like a hope than a reliable prediction of the future, but everyone hangs on every word. Ideally, everything will turn out just like James has said, despite how dark and complicated everything seems right now.

“Of course Sirius will be freed,” resumes James, more to himself than to anybody else, though they are all still listening to him, as if in trance. “All they have to do is check the last spell he cast with his wand. It will undoubtedly be some kind of protective spell--not like Bombarda Maxima or anything. It won’t take them more than a month, tops, to free him. It’s not even that much time, Harry could spend it with Remus, the next full moon is still weeks away. So, nothing to worry about. And Sirius and Remus, by themselves even if they need to, will resume their quest to find Wormatil. How hard it can be to find a traitorous, smelling, hated, little rat?” 

No-one answers him, because, how can you give an answer to that? Thankfully, James wasn’t really expecting one, as he continues to speak without a pause, trying to convince himself with his reasoning. After a while, seeing that he’s not going to stop himself, Lily goes stand before him and holds his face with both her hands. The touch, still warm and tender as ever, makes James finally stop babbling, and he takes one of her hands and gives it a gentle kiss and Lily smiles weakly through the tears and the tensed muscles for what they’ve just witnessed. 

“What are we going to do?” asks Lily in a whisper, looking still directly at James. Even with the prospects James has been offering them, he hasn’t offered that solution. 

He sighs, knowing that perfectly well. And their situation, despite that they’re already dead, proves to be more difficult than any other’s. With the probable exception of Sirius’, but he hopes that will be solved within days. 

“We’ll just have to be patient to meet our son.” 

“We’ll wait,” grants Lily, caressing James’ hair as she’s used to. “The rest of our eternity.” 

“Always,” confirms James. They have all the time they want and, with just a little bit of luck--or maybe a lot more of luck than they’re capable of phantom at this moment--everything will turn out fine and it’ll be decades when they see their son, hopefully when he’s all grown-up and a grandparent himself. And Wormtail will get caught eventually. And Remus and Sirius won’t join them in a few decades, too. All they can do is pray for the best and hope those prayers are listened, unlike theirs, when they asked to survive the War and live with Harry, growing old together as a happy, united family.


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> November 1st, 1981. Petunia Dursley wakes up to find a baby abandoned on their doorstep who she has no intention to keep.

A shrieking cry raises from the kitchen and makes Vernon, still getting ready for work in the bathroom, jump; the movement has as a result a cut at the jaw from the shaver. Cursing under his breath, Vernon gets a piece of toilet paper and covers the small bleeding injury with one hand, while with the other cleans the remaining shaving foam from his chin and cheeks. He takes only too seconds to comb his hair before getting downstairs towards the kitchen. Their almost five-month-old son Dudley doesn’t usually have such an early morning; it’s not until Vernon leaves for work, in twenty minutes, that he starts bawling, as if he didn’t want to be away from his father. 

From the hallway he sees Petunia sitting in one chair, trying to soothe Dudley, who’s bawling hysterically on her arms. Vernon realizes, just a little bit annoyed, that breakfast isn’t ready yet; he usually finds his plate on the table when he comes downstairs, and takes joy of a good and nutritional breakfast for almost twenty minutes, before taking the car to go downtown. 

He enters the kitchen silently and quietly, a bit scared of what he might find in there, as Petunia doesn’t bat an eye with his arrival. Of course, he groans internally while staring blankly at the sight in front of him, life couldn’t get back to normal. One single day of cats with glasses reading maps, owls flying around, and grown-up adults dressed ridiculously with strange robes wasn’t enough for the Big Guy up there, apparently. Today’s un unknown child bawling on the kitchen table. For God, what will it be tomorrow? Should they just stay in bed all day and avoid any social contact, just in case? 

“What’s going on?” he dares to ask, almost five full minutes after entering the kitchen. 

Tuney hasn’t moved either: she’s got Dudley crying on her arms, staring blankly at an opened letter on the kitchen table, besides the other child, who’s wrapped up in a thick blanket, crying as loud as Dudley; it’s obvious his cries have woken Dudley up, and now neither of the babies will shut up. At least, Petunia hasn’t lost the ability to talk. 

“I found him at our doorstep.” 

“Someone abandoned him, then?” he demands stupidly, looking for certainty. “Should I call Social Services? The police?” 

“No, we can’t do nothing of that sort.” 

Vernon snorts, not believing what Tuney’s saying. “It’s an abandoned child we don’t even know, why shouldn’t we--?” 

“He’s Harry,” snaps Petunia with a strange voice. There are some unspoken feelings and emotions underlying behind her sentence and the curious way she’s staring at the baby on the table, and Vernon doesn’t really want to ask. He doesn’t need the headache. 

“Why have I heard that name so many times since yesterday morning? What’s going on?” 

“Because he’s some sort of savior or prodigy child of their world, or something. I don’t bloody know. All I know for sure, he’s our nephew.” 

“And why the bloody heck is he here?! Can’t his parents--?” 

“No, they can’t,” interjects Petunia with a very low murmur, just loud enough to be heard over Dudley’s and Harry’s bawling. “From the day we found out about Lily’s abnormality I knew something of this sort would happen eventually,” she resumes, looking solely at some point between the opened letter and Harry, not really talking to Vernon. “And now here he is, his parents blown up in some stupid accident, orphan. And we’re expected to keep him.” 

“Says who?” 

“Albus Dumbledore,” answers Petunia, offering him the letter on the table, letting it slide till it’s closer to Vernon than to her. “The Headmaster of that school of freaks Lily assisted. Where she met her husband and the rest of her abnormally freak friends. By God, first our parents, now she’s killed herself and her husband. It’s almost a miracle her child has survived with them for a whole year in that neglectful family.” 

“I still don’t understand,” replies Vernon with a slight stutter. Though Tuney isn’t making that much of sense, he doesn’t dare to cast a glimpse at the letter, almost afraid of what it says. 

“We have to keep him,” says Petunia quietly, just looking at Dudley on his arms, as if the child in question wasn’t lying a few feet away from her. 

“No, we don’t,” replies Vernon at once. “That’s rubbish. I won’t take a child against my will, no matter who--” 

“This house is supposed to be safe for him.” 

“Any house is safe for an one-year-old baby!” 

“Not in their world. The person who killed his parents apparently wanted to kill him.” 

“He couldn’t have succeeded, could he?” demands Vernon, almost on the edge of a nervous breakdown. “We wouldn’t be at stake right now, discussing this.” Petunia doesn’t comment on his interruption; on the contrary, she keeps on talking as if she’d heard nothing at all. 

“And apparently this is a safe house for him.” 

This finishes Vernon’s little patience and just ends up infuriating him. He scowls louder than any of the kids in the kitchen, “So by taking him we’re to endanger our lives? I won’t take him! No, Sir! That’s a no, a final, absolute no, you understand me?! He’ll have to get by on his own! He’s got superpowers, right? He’ll be OK, we don’t need to worry about him.” 

At last, at this outraged words, Petunia lifts her head, finding her husband holding on tightly on the chair at the other side of the table, face read, struggling really hard to contain the remaining anger or his yells. And so, Petunia herself raises her own voice an octave. 

“Vernon, they’ll know if we dump him, and I’ve told you many times, you don’t want to mess with their kind. See how my sister ended up.” 

“Well, I don’t mean I have to talk to them. But it’s best if they knew, right? They can take the child then--” 

“Vernon, they left him yesterday night,” she interjects. “It’s obvious their kind doesn’t intend to keep him, or plan to discuss the matter with us. They only think we’re a fit to keep him because he’s family.” 

“Well, they’re wrong. You do know how to contact them, right?” 

“You’re not listening to me, Vernon!” shrieks finally Tuney, getting out at last her worry and sadness in a gloomy mood and snappy and bossy behavior. “They were here last night. If they come back, with their stupid robes and styles--” 

Vernon, taking a few steps backwards, gasps audibly. “I don’t want to know what’d the neighbors say.” He looks around, as if expecting to see every neighbor’s head through the windows, or one of those unwanted visitors at the door. 

“Exactly,” confirms Petunia, lowering her voice again now that her husband has understood her primarily problem. 

Vernon stays silent for a few minutes, absolutely clueless of what to do, while he watches with a proud smile at his son, and a disgusted glare the other child. All he’s life he’s had a normal living, family, work. He is proud of what he’s achieved. He’s a model citizen, father, husband, neighbor. And he thought he could protect Tuney from the disastrous world of her sister. But now, that world is knocking on their front door without a warning, and they’re supposed to welcome him in and go along. Oh, he won’t go down without a fight. 

“Can you make him shut up?” he begs, barely able to think or hear his thoughts over Harry’s bawling. “He’s giving me a headache.” 

“He’s hungry, there isn’t much I can do,” snaps Tuney. 

He sighs deeply, trying to think for a few more minutes. 

“Well--” he stumbles. 

When he’s opened his eyes this morning he never thought he’d be facing as colossal a problem as this one right here, this early in the morning. His biggest worry half an hour ago was his drills business, nothing else. And now he has to agree to taking in a second baby, without the benefit of the doubt? They barely get any sleep at night as it is. The costs of another mouth to feed, another boy to keep... 

“Can’t we just leave him some--?” He stops mid-sentence upon receiving the furious stare of Petunia. He didn’t really mean it, of course, they’re not barbarian either, unlike the family of his wife’s sister, apparently. “I’m off to work,” he decides. He rushes off to get his coat, suitcase and keys and comes back to the kitchen, where nothing has changed within this half minute. Tuney's sitting still on the chair, the two babies are bawling and crying their eyes out. He almost says thanks for having a work to go--escape--to. "This conversation isn't over, Tuney, dear, I assure you we don't have to keep him in our house. I'll sort this out, today, if possible, OK? Will you be alright?" 

"I think so," says Petunia, turning her head so Vernon can kiss her on the cheek. "Could you get some baby food from the store on your way back?" 

"Sure thing. Anything else you need?" 

"I'm good, really, Vernon. See you this afternoon." 

Vernon tickles Dudley's nose and, without a second look at Tuney or the disastrous scene he's leaving behind, he leaves the house and gets into his car, revving the engine at once and driving off downtown immediately, eager to disappear from that mess. No, there's no way they're gonna keep and fed that kid. It will only bring horror and more disaster to this perfect small, simple family. No matter what Dum--That stupid Headmaster of theirs thinks or wants, he's the father of this family, and he's saying no. He maybe should stop by the nearest police station to sort this out. They should be able to do something, for Christ' sake! And above all, the child appearance has made him forget all about breakfast, his stomach reminds him with a loud grumble. As he shots a hand at his stomach, trying to cover the noise, he realizes he should stop at some caffe to get something to eat before getting to the office, in case someone notices he hasn't eaten today. But it's much too late for that--he's known for his demanding british punctuality. It wouldn't do to be late, even if he's the boss of his own company. At least he'll can ask for something to eat from his secretary. The first thirty minutes that kid is on his household he's already creating problems. Not a chance he's staying, then. That's settled. He's almost in a better mood when he parks the car on his reserved spot closest to his office. 

By that time, back to number 4 Privet Drive, Petunia Dursley hasn't moved yet from the kitchen chair. It takes her almost one more hour of baby cries for her to move and stand up, grabbing Harry with one hand by the blankets, changing both of their diapers and get to the living room. She leaves Harry on the sofa, among a few cushions in case he's that type of kids that roll over all around the place, and she sits on the couch in front of the sofa, to feed Dudley. His cries finally stop and he sucks eagerly on her breast, a few drops of milk pouring from his chin, and she has to forget and put aside the slight pain as she stares at Harry, still bawling, his tiny arms extended as if asking for a touch or an embrace. For the last hour he’s been babbling something that sounds very similar to the word “Momma.” Of course he’s demanding the arms of his mother. 

“She’s not here,” snaps Petunia, anger hiding her sorrow. “She and your father aren’t here anymore. She’s left you. She’s left us both.” 

Her voice breaks at the last word and she closes her mouth shut, determined not to cry here, even when there is no-one around to contemplate her humiliation. But her willingness won’t stop her mind from thinking that easily. 

‘What was to be expected? When her magic has never brought on anything good? Never, not once. It was obvious she’d end up like this. She should have stayed. I always told her she should have stayed. She shouldn’t have gone to Hogwarts and meet that bunch of freaks. She should have stayed home with me. Live a normal life. Surely that’d have been infinitely better, seeing how things have turned out to be. If she hadn’t left, we’d still be together.’ These events have just convinced her a bit more of the horrors of magic and the fact that wizards and witches are not at all a part of children’ fairytales, but rather, witches’ hunt In history were truly justified. Obviously, more innocent people than actual wizards were killed on those hunts, but she somehow wishes they’d succeeded at their Crusade. Lily would have been normal, she wouldn’t have got their parents killed, she would be alive today. 

All of a sudden Harry stops crying for no apparent reason, which attracts Petunia’s attention. She lifts her head from Dudley just in time to see Harry opening his big, clear eyes, staring directly at her, as if he knew what she’d been thinking of. But she’s frozen and can’t even move, much less resume her train of thought, upon seeing Harry’s eyes for the first time. She’s recognized them at once, by all means. Her sister’s. A painful reminder for the rest of her life –or at least, for however long they’re going to keep him under this household--of the dearest person she’s lost and the reasons why she’s to accept her kid. Without being truly aware of it, a single tear pours from her eye, crosses her cheek and falls right on Dudley’s forehead. The very first, and last, tear she’s cried because of Lily ever since she went to that school of hers for the first time, leaving her behind. And now she’s left again to a place where she just can’t follow her, though she would have been willing to, if she’d even been asked to. 


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Novembr 1st, 1981, Hogwarts Castle. The school staff meets in shock after receiving disbelieving news about Voldemort's decay and the death of James and Lily Potter.

It’s been an early morning for most of the people gathered, even though the sun’s still a foggy, pinkish, tiny sphere rising in the midst of the mountains. And yet, the small, circular room is more crowded by the minute with shocked, anxious, out of their minds, speechless, appalled wizards and witches; speaking ones over others in hurried, panicked murmurs or shrieks and stutters, very few of them being able to finish real, long sentences, some drinks passing around unsupervised, needed. 

One of them, Hagrid, is sobbing and crying loudly, so obviously not in condition to face this conversation and debate, but no one could tell him--or make him--leave, hence they just try to talk over his weeping. 

“It’s incredible, really,” whispers Arthur, shaking visibly. “The Dementors say Death Eaters are just losing their minds--five of them have already committed suicide only this night.” 

“Good riddance,” scowls Hagrid. 

“How is that possible?” shrieks Slughorn. 

“I don’t really want to know,” confesses Arthur, taking a sip from his liquor cup. 

“Better question yet is how the news got to Azkaban so quickly,” replies McGonagall. 

The chimney lights once more with green flames and within seconds, Moody enters the room with his usual fast and irregular pace, along with his cane, his magical eye scanning all the wizards and witches present. 

“Alastor,” greets Dumbledore, who’s not alien to everyone’s nervousness and anxiety and has been walking up and down the room quietly for the whole meeting. “Finally. What’s the word at the Ministry?” 

“Minister’s gone mad,” scowls the Auror, shaking his head, summoning the bottle of liquor from Hagrid’s hands. “He’s allowed all Aurors to kill any Death Eaters, or suspected of being Death Eater, at sight--and they’re complying gladly, I might add.” 

“But that’s completely--” Madame Pomfrey can’t even finish her sentence, though her outrage and repudiation towards the Ministry’s Decree is obvious. “What if they come here, Albus?” she asks, concerned. 

“No harm will ever come to any of the kids at my School from the Ministry, I promise you that,” he says, his confidence enough for everyone to trust his words. “Plus, I imagine some students have already left the castle afraid of any repercussions.” 

“I wouldn’t know,” confesses the Deputy Headmistress, understanding it was an indirect question to her. 

“Well, in any case, this can’t go on,” resumes Albus, turning to face Moody. “Alastor, please talk reason to your men--you must stop this recklessness and stupidity. More people will end up dead in our hands than in Lord Voldemort’s, if this lingers.” 

“Sure thing,” nods Moody. “Wouldn’t do any harm that you spoke to the Minister himself, either.” 

“I’ve decided I’ll go meet him later this morning, don’t worry. Please, Minerva, be so kind to remind me.” 

“Of course,” says she. And before she or anyone else can add anything, the door opens once more and Prof. Flitwick descends as fast as he can the stairs towards them, approaching the Headmaster. 

“Albus,” he pants, eyes opened wide. “What’s happened? Rumor says--” 

“Rumors appear to be true,” answers sullenly the Headmaster. 

“Oh, please, Albus, don’t say that,” begs Prof. Flitwick. “That’s--That’s simply not--”

“I was right,” whispers a woman behind all of them, the only one gloating at this hour, which only ends up infuriating a bit more everyone gathered. “I saw it. I was right.” 

“Sybill, please refrain from being so cheerful about this,” demands Minerva, voice as cold as ice. “You would be kind to remember this child’s parents are dead. Did you see that as well?” 

“I saw it all,” replies the woman, approaching the inner circle, looking at them alternatively. “Only the child would be a match for Him. And only the child’s still alive today.” 

At that moment, Hagrid’s weeping intensifies into a full wave of wailing, leaning into a gigantic wardrobe not to fall to the ground, and Pomona, the person physically closest to him, pats him gently on the leg, as she’d do to anyone’s shoulder in an attempt to sooth him down and encourage him. 

“So, it is true,” stutters Flitwick. Seeing his state of mind, Alastor produces a chair behind the man and the Professor lets himself fall into it, completely unaware Moody’s saved him from a hard fall to the floor. 

“It appears so,” confirms Albus with placid voice, though he’s still pacing up and down the room. “As incredible as it may seem.” 

“Come on, Albus, it can’t have been this easy,” scowls Alastor and now it is him who receives glares and angry responses from everyone else. 

“Easy? How many wizards and witches have perished during this War?” 

“I know the exact number of people who’ve died because of Voldemort, Arthur. And that’s exactly my point too. A one-year-old kid could never...” 

“There’s never been a record in all Wizarding History of an one-year-old child having enough powers to stop a Killing Curse directly cast at him,” says Madame Pince with complete confidence in the library records. 

“Indeed,” confirms Prof. Slughorn, proud despite the fear. “The boy’s already a legend and he can’t even walk. It’s just incredible.”

“Without a shred of doubt,” agrees Madame Pince. “Even if he was talented upon born, and if he’d been trained by his parents, the protection spell would never be so strong to last for ever. By all means, I still can’t believe--” 

“We’ll dig into it in due time,” replies Dumbledore, more sternly this time. “For now, let’s just rejoice the moment. We’re free.” 

“You can’t really believe. . .” 

“Alastor, what I do or do not believe does not matter at this point. What I do know is that since yesterday night I don’t feel anymore the malign presence of a Dark Lord hovering over our heads. His magical power is gone.” Magical power, repeats Alastor to himself, at last hearing what he was expecting from Dumbledore. He’s never said Voldemort’s gone for good--he may have only lost his powers. Which doesn’t mean he can’t come back. 

On the other hand, it’s clear that it won’t happen overnight, not when most of his Death Eaters are committing suicide, being killed, repudiating the Dark Arts, or fleeing the country. It is true they don’t have to take active measures at this precise moment. As long as they’re safe. 

“But, Albus,” says Flitwick some long seconds later. “How could this happen?” 

“Filius--” 

“No, I mean, James and Lily were protected by a Fidelius Charm, certainly?” he asks, looking up at the man, concerned. “If Voldemort knew where were they hiding, it means--” 

“The Secret Keeper betrayed them,” Arthur finishes the thought, as appalled and disgusted as Flitwick and anyone else who’s just now seen the truth. He steps forward, shaking now from rage. “Who--?” 

“That traitor Black!” yells Hagrid, and his powerful and high-pitched voice makes them all jump in fright, more scared of him in this state than any previous rendez-vous with a now gone Lord Voldemort. “That bastard! That soulless, Black--” 

“Black?” repeats Arthur, forgetting about Hagrid’s ranting that can keep for hours, turning to face McGonagall and Albus. “Sirius? Please,” he chuckles nervously. “That’s not possible. I refuse to believe that.” 

“You’re not the only one,” agrees another male voice, coming from someone who hasn’t said a word before now. Some hadn’t even noticed him, sitting quietly on a chair in a dark corner, apparently too sad or shocked. But it wasn’t that--Remus Lupin was just furious. He’d just moved on way past furious and was in that passive-aggressive silent state, ready to combust at any time. “I know you’re all wrong, Albus. Sirius would never betray James and Lily. I know him too well.” 

“War and dark times change people,” reasons Albus, voice more sweet than any other time he’s spoken. 

“Not that much! Not him!” yells Remus, stepping closer, shaking with rage, until he’s only a few steps from Dumbledore himself. “Sirius was their brother! He’d never do--”

 “Lupin, the evidence is quite clear,” replies Alastor. 

“What evidence?!” he demands, spinning around. 

“You know as well as I do that only the Secret Keeper could have told Lord Voldemort where James and Lily Potter where hiding. He’s the only one who could have done it,” explains Alastor, without being aware Dumbledore has told him the exact same thing many times over before he came here. “Plus, he murdered Peter Pettigrew when he confronted Sirius--” 

“That uncanny brave young man,” whispers Pomona, wiping a tear from her eyes. 

“As well as thirteen Muggles and blowing up a whole street,” ends Alastor sternly. “The Ministry’s having a nice day with that one too.” 

“Albus, I’ve been telling you for hours, we’ve got this whole thing wrong! Sirius would never do this. James and Lily trusted him with their lives!”

 “Apparently, that’s exactly what happened,” replies the man slowly. 

“Don’t give me that, Albus! You knew that man as well as I did!” 

“He’s a Black, alright,” scowls Hagrid. “Murderous and traitor blood runs through his veins, always has. Oh, if I ever get my hands on that man, I swear to Merlin and to magic that I’ll make him suffer like--” 

“Hagrid, please, not now,” begs Pomona, as none of his words are helping a bit in the discussion among Remus and the rest of staff and Order members.

 “Please, Albus, let me speak to him, just once, and all this will be cleared up.” 

“Impossible,” replies the Headmaster, at the same time as Alastor. “The Minister will never agree to it.” 

“Well, make him!” demands Remus. “It wouldn’t be the first time you get him to do something you feared he’d never agree to.” 

“This is not that time.” 

“Says you, for Pete’s sake!!” 

“Lupin,” begs Minerva, and with that single word, those two simple syllables, Remus stops his yelling and takes a breath, looking straight at his old Head of House. The woman grabs him by the arm, makes him sit down again on the chair and talks to him for some minutes smoothly, quietly. “Take some time off. The War’s over after all. Rent a house away from the city, out in the fields, where you’re safe. Come to terms with all that’s happened. Take your time to deal with all this.” 

Considering Minerva will be able to calm Remus down, everyone else resumes their argument. 

“How’re the students?” asks Dumbledore. 

“Nervous--not at all surprising,” confesses Prof. Slughorn. “Plus, seems to be mail day--everyone’s owls are coming go and fro with different news. Probably--” 

“Yes, I should go speak with them,” confirms Dumbledore, signaling for all the staff to join him to the Great Hall as well. Only Arthur and Alastor remain, then. 

The last one gives the bottle of Firewhiskey to Flitwick, who seems to need it more than he did, and heads for the fireplace. “I’ll be going back to the Ministry, to see if I can put some fires out.” 

“Thank you, I’ll appreciate it,” confesses Dumbledore. “If you see him, tell the Minister I’ll be there within the hour. I’m guessing no-one but me will be able to talk reason to him.” 

“Roger that.”

“I’ll go back home, if that’s alright with everyone,” decides Arthur. “I want to be with Molly.”

“Of course,” grants Dumbledore, the faintest of smiles on his lips. “Enjoy now that the War’s over; take care of her.” 

“We will. Let us know if you need anything,” he says, before disappearing into a burst of green flames. Alastor waits until they recede before stepping into the fireplace himself as well, taking a last look around the room. 

“Albus, I’ll expect your owl with the date,” he asks, nicer than they’ve ever heard them demand anything, before the green flames raise once more. And it’s not only the tone of voice he’s used; it’s also what he’s requested. Alastor would never have accepted to hold a public, crowded funeral for James and Lily Potter if Voldemort’s threat was still hovering over them all. 

It means it is all over--at least for now. 

Looking around, noticing an out of their minds Remus and Hagrid, Albus must ask them to stay behind inside this room while he and the staff go speak with the students. 

As soon as the staff and the Headmaster appear on sight, a racket of hundred of questions being asked at the same time deafen them all. Most of the students are on their feet, holding and comparing with each other different parchments, undoubtedly mail from their families. Nobody’s paying any attention to the breakfast already on the tables. There are even older students present with their families--figuring out this was the quickest and easiest way of knowing the truth. 

The truth--beautiful and terrible, is quite difficult to deliver. It takes some time for the students to believe Dumbledore’s words, until a burst of joy and cheerfulness explodes within the Great Hall, everyone celebrating with everyone the end of this dark era. 

“However,” resumes the Headmaster, speaking over the noise, “I urge you all to remain vigilant. Lord Voldemort may have lost all his powers, but I’m fairly certain he is not gone for good.” 

“Who cares!” replies someone from the Slytherin table. 

“He’s gone for now and the War’s over!" says a Ravenclaw student. 

No-one listens to any other word the Headmaster tries to say and, few minutes in, he gives up--can’t say anything to somebody who doesn’t want to listen. And this day is one of celebration. Another reason why he’d give the students the day off classes if it weren’t a sunday; teachers would probably be unable to make them listen to the lectures. 

Without touching his breakfast, he steps away from the lectern, having lost the spotlight and attention, stopping by Madame Pince’s seat to ask her a small favor. She nods, promising she’ll have it all prepped by the time he comes back from the Ministry, and she too leaves the Great Hall having had very little to eat. 

However, Albus can’t still leave the Hall, as he’s jammed by some older students when he leaves the staff’s dais. Only the five of them, besides the staff, seem unconnected to the general rejoice feeling hovering the Great Hall, have been all throughout his explanation. 

“Goldstein, McClaggen, Vulchanov, Prince, Delaney,” greets Albus one by one. 

They all nod in response. “We wanted to ask--James and Lily Potter--?”

“I wasn’t lying, I’m afraid,” he replies courteously. “They’re both dead.” 

“No, that was not it,” replies McClaggen. “We believe you. It’s just--”

“When’s the funeral to take place?” asks Mr. Prince, beating about the bush. “If they’re the reason this ordeal’s finally over, we want to present our respects.” 

Dumbledore stares at the five of them for some long seconds, knowing that in this case, he won’t be convincing these five otherwise. “That’s very kind of you all. Expect my owl within the week.” 

“Thank you,” they say, stepping away to let Dumbledore leave the Great Hall. 

At the small room, Hagrid’s still weeping, probably unaware the meeting’s all over; but, on the other side, Lupin’s vanished. He doesn’t like this disappearance; he fear what Remus might be up to. He’s lost his friends all in one night--who knows what a man, even one as reasonable as Remus, might do in this same exact situation. 

That’s why it is up to him to do something, on this instance. It is time he did what he couldn’t have done earlier because of all the tragedies and deaths. He let Marvolo Riddle to get to Hogwarts and learn everything he could have learnt on Magic--he should be able as well to learn about his past and how he ended up becoming the Greatest Dark Wizard of all times. As the wise man said, there’s no possible way of defeating your enemies without knowing previously who they really are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I just flatly refuse to believe Remus would be the only one attending James and Lily's funeral.


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That same morning, Arthur Weasley gets home to his wife and family with renewed hope, still disbelieving that they've just won the War and got their whole lives ahead of them.

Arthur climbs into the chimney and throws the floo powder, thanking such an efficient and quick means of transportation exists in their World, but getting quite tired about it at the same time. It probably has to do with the fact he’s already travelled by the Floo connection three times this dawn when they went to sleep way too late even for Halloween’s night and, worse of all, being a Sunday, most of their kids are still asleep in their beds. But, considering the piece of news, it’s all worth it. 

He keeps his eyes shut longer than necessary; his empty stomach was starting to ache by the time he noticed he’d stop traveling. He kneels to get out of the chimney--and finds Molly standing in the kitchen, almost in the same spot and position he’s left her couple hours ago. Leaning against the countertop, a cold cup of coffee in her hands, eyes lost in the distance, her mind wandering who knows where. 

“Molly,” he whimpers. 

She turns around to welcome him in her arms, keeping each other close. They don’t let go for a minute or so; he caresses her hair and back of the neck while noticing her hands up and down his back, a touch they’ve yearned for ever since he got up from the bed. 

“Are you OK?” he demands, leaning to be eye level with her, finding in her eyes some tears he doesn’t want to see there. 

“Yes, of course. Tell me,” she commands after wiping them off with the apron. 

“You can put down the wards now, Molly,” he whispers. 

The sentence had double meaning and she catches on that quickly; her affective wards to protect their children and the actual wards around the Burrow aimed at the same goal, both meaning Lord Voldemort’s menace’s gone. Her eyes fill with tears once again and next second, relief floods in, leaving her powerless. Arthur has to keep her on her two feet by holding her shoulders, so she doesn’t drop to the ground. 

“Hey, hey, it’s alright. . . It’s alright now,” he promises over and over again, to let the meaning really sink in, as he drags her to the table and makes her sit down on a chair. “We’re safe. Forever and always. And our kids are too. It’s all over, Molly, for real.” 

Her whimpers don’t subside whether she’s on her feet or seated and he kneels before her, keeping her hair from her face, letting her take it all out and cry till she’s rested. They deserve it, they can react however their bodies ask them to. 

“And--” 

Arthur sighs, knowing he couldn’t delay the explanations, but not sure if Molly should hear about it all right now. 

“James and Lily were murdered by You-Know-Who,” he whispers, caressing her back still. “Peter as well, in the hands of Sirius--and he’s already been sent to Azkaban. But He’s gone, for real.” 

“Oh, dear Lord,” scowls Molly, hiding her head in her hands. Arthur told her the rumors Moody'd reported him before leaving, he was that out of his mind about it, but it’s something completely different to know such horrible news are real. This is not how they’d envisioned the end of the War. They weren't even aware there was a traitor in their midst. And the Potters had to live, after having Harry--they all should have survived. 

“I know. I know. It’s a lot to take in. Just--it’s all behind us now. Everything we’ve suffered, everything we’ve been pulled through--it was all worth it,” utters Arthur, leaning in to rest against Molly’s shoulder, letting her do the same against his chest. At some point, tears start falling down from Arthur’s eyes as well. 

They couldn’t pinpoint how much time they’re there, sitting on opposite chairs, leaning against the love of their lives, letting out all the anxiety and nervousness the War’s left them with, but they do know exactly when and why they’re forced to pull away from each other. 

They still have six children to take care of. To nurture, teach how to read, talk, help with mathematics problems, to love--but thankfully their priority isn’t to keep them alive anymore. There’s no thread marked over their whole family for belonging to the Order of the Phoenix. 

“What’s happened?” asks a concerned, high-pitched voice. 

“Is Mom hurt or something?” presses a second voice as they pull away from each other, facing Charlie, Percy, Fred and George standing on the kitchen’s doorstep--Charlie carrying little Ron in his arms. 

“We’re alright, sweetie,” promises Molly, standing up from the chair, sharing one last look with Arthur. 

“Morning, you lot. Good to see you,” he greets the boys. Spectacular. Magnificent. Wondrous. Just some more adjectives he could have used to describe this morning and meet his family, but they still need to keep up appearances; they’ve hidden the War from their children till now, they can continue to do so for a little while longer. 

“You’ve been peering out for long?” demands Molly suspiciously as the kids enter the kitchen. 

“Nope,” they promise at one, ultimately proving they’ve been lurking around for a while, in fact. For the time being it’s easy to spot their lies. 

The kids sit on their places around the table, Charlie after putting Ron down in his crib, and Molly and Arthur turn towards the cupboards to prepare the children’s breakfast. But Molly doesn’t manage to finish her task; all of a sudden she turns around, to Arthur’s dismay, looks at every member of the family and forgets about breakfast altogether. She marches over to hug the four kids, receiving some giggles and scowls at the same time. 

“We’re more than alright, actually,” she mutters, kissing them all in turn. 

Arthur stares for some seconds, knowing how their children hate such open gestures of affection, but in the end, gives in and joins Molly in her task to hug and kiss on the forehead every single one of their kids, because they just can’t stop themselves. 

“Why, we love you all so, so much,” Molly giggles when she’s finished the round, including Ron in the crib, who giggles joyfully, completely unaware of life's dangers. 

“I’m missing someone,” complains Arthur, still knelt in front of Ron’s crib. “Bill still asleep?”

“He’s in bed, but awake--he told us not to wait for him for breakfast,” answers Charlie as he pours a bowl of cereals and reaches for the milk. 

“Well, he’s missing his share of parental love this morning,” chuckles Arthur. 

“Lucky him,” scowls Fred under his breath. 

“When you’re a father, you’ll understand.” 

“Understand what? The need for physically torturing my children since the moment they wake up?” 

“Or the need to force them to wake up this early even on weekends?” George picks up complaining where his twin brother left up. 

“You’ll understand,” promises Arthur. 

“That kind of sounds like a threat more than anything else,” scowls Charlie. 

Arthur winks at him so he’s not forced to give any answer out loud. He had one foot outside the kitchen when he turns around once more towards his wife, caressing her back as she’s still busy with breakfasts. She stops for a second to get a kiss on the cheek and after complying her wishes, Arthur climbs up the staircases to Bill’s room. 

The door creaks open, effectively waking the boy if he were actually sleeping; as far as Arthur can see, Bill’s just hiding under the sheets and blankets. He turns around at that moment so his back’s facing the door, the ultimate unwelcoming gesture. A small grin on his lips, Arthur steps forward and sits on the edge of the bed; and still Bill scoots further away, almost lying against the wall. 

“Morning, kiddo,” Arthur greets, resting a hand on what he assumes it’s Bill’s shoulder. “It’s already quarter to nine--aren’t you stretching it out a bit too far?” 

“I didn’t get much sleep last night,” is the surprising answer he gets, muffled under the ton of sheets and blankets. 

Arthur chuckles under his breath and he attempts to get Bill out of his fort, unsuccessfully, since his son keeps a too tight hold to the sheets over his head--so Arthur settles for the tickle tactic, trying to find the exact position of Bill’s figure in the bed. 

“And why did that happen? Stayed too late playing with your brothers?” he asks jokingly. 

“No--the emergency Floo-call woke me up.” 

Arthur couldn’t have expected a stranger answer and freezes--Bill stops fidgeting at the same time and peers over the sheets at him. He can’t tell the face his son meets with, but it certainly isn’t the serene, relieved one he stepped into the room with. Far from it. 

“William,” he scowls, using the complete first name to indicate the seriousness of the matter, “you weren’t supposed to hear that.” 

Arthur’s complaint comes out as a scowl filled with remorse and regret, dropping both hands to the bed, his head to one side. They’ve done a great job protecting their children, up to this very moment, when it no longer matters. 

“But I did,” remarks Bill, now hiding from the unexpected response he could get from his father. “I’m not a kid anymore, Dad. Please, just tell me. Is the War over?” 

“My Lord, how’d you--” They’ve been careful not to pronounce that name or any of You-Know-Who’s follower’s names around the house. 

“I read the papers, Dad. And I’m not stupid, I’m aware of the things happening around me, my peermates and my family, specially those that could affect all our lives,” reminds him Bill patiently. “So? Is Lord--” 

“Don’t you say it,” warns Arthur immediately, not content hearing his older son pronouncing that name out loud, even if that threat’s gone. 

“Is he dead?” Bill finishes his question in a terrified whisper. Arthur’s already shaking his head before he finishes it. 

Considering there’s no point in hiding the truth from Bill any longer--nor he’s got any strength left in him to keep doing so--Arthur sighs deeply and leans forward, to rest on top of Bill’s in an oblique angle, confident he won’t hurt him with the thickness of the blankets in between. 

“Okay, you sneaky little thing, I’ll be honest with you. Only because I know a full-straight and honest answer will calm you sooner and better than a white lie. Yes, William; the threat you’ve been hearing about all around is gone, as of some hours ago. You and all your brothers are safe. Not that you weren’t before--”

“Please--don’t try to lie to me now,” begs Bill, condescending tone on his voice. “If only from my adventures books, I know what a War entails and looks like. Bottom line is--Now you and Mom are safe and don’t have to risk your lives for our sake anymore.” 

Once more, Arthur’s left in stunned silence, staring in awe--and a bit of fright--at his son, who’s just spoken the words he didn’t dare to say as if he were saying two times four equals eight. One look from Bill consisting in a raised eyebrow and tilted head tells him he wasn’t fooled. All those times he or Molly had to leave in the middle of the night for an urgent Order meeting, all those times they came back injured from a mission or an attack from Death Eaters, the many times they didn’t let their children out of the house for reasons, that one time Molly came back and stayed in bed for two days after Fabian and Gideon were murdered by Death Eaters. They hid the truth from their children, but apparently not from Bill--and he never said a word about it, until today. 

“I’m sorry, William,” whimpers Arthur, hugging his son tightly. “You shouldn’t--” 

“It’s alright,” he replies, pushing him away so he can stare into his father’s eye. “Just promise me one thing.” 

“Anything.” 

After learning the strength of his son, Arthur would literally do anything in his power to make it up to to the boy, thinking his wish would be that of an eleven-year-old kid, just something unimportant or materialistic that’d be easy to give. 

“You have to promise me you and Mom won’t leave us again.” 

Bill’s demand manages to get Arthur stammering for words once more. He chuckles, a way of getting a couple more seconds to think a way out of this one. 

“Please, Bill, you know I work. And me and your mother need to get out of the house sometime if you want to be fed and clothed and--” 

At his attempt to downplay the situation, Bill stands, throwing all the blankets away, forcing Arthur to sit up too. 

“You know what I mean!” scowls the boy. 

Arthur sighs again, both hands on Bill’s shoulders to keep him in place. 

“Bill, for Merlin’s sake--” 

“Promise me!” he interrupts him with a shriek. 

They both stay silent for some beats, staring at each other in surprise and confusion. Bill’s never gotten away with talking disrespectfully to his parents; and Arthur knows a lesson should be given. Alas, they both realize it’s not the time for it--Bill expects something way different. 

“Ok,” sighs Arthur in the end, caressing Bill’s forehead tenderly, “I promise. Your Mom and I won’t leave your side, alright, kiddo? Not in the way you fear. You satisfied?” 

He looks nothing but, though fortunately, in this relationship, Arthur’s still the father and can boss him around. 

“Well, that’s as good a promise you’re getting, Bill,” he chuckles, patting him on the back. “Now, you better get down to the kitchen if you want breakfast. Go.” 

He forces him to get up from bed, however reluctantly, but he must still feel somewhat afraid, because he doesn’t bother to change into regular clothes while his father makes his bed. Instead, he stands in the middle of the room for some long seconds before turning to face Arthur. 

“So--does that mean I can have a normal school year from now on?” 

Arthur chuckles as he stands up from picking up one of the pillows from the floor. 

“Guess so, William,” he acknowledges. 

That’s what the kid knows for normal, he guesses; an ordinary academic year at Hogwarts, not being pulled away from the school the minute his classes finish on fridays and being sent back early on Monday, just in time for his first class. Yes, Bill’s first couple of months at Hogwarts aren’t what he deserved, only because his parents couldn’t stand having him out of their sight for too long on weekends. 

“Great,” whispers Bill, leaning in for the compulsory morning kiss from his dad. 

“From now on, just enjoy your classes, have fun with your friends and keep up the good grades,” instructs Arthur sweetly, ‘cause those are the only three priorities the kid should have had in his mind ever since he got to Hogwarts. 

“I can do that,” promises Bill, a small grin on his face, reassuring Arthur he isn’t suffering from any traumatic child experience because of them. 

“Happy to hear that. Breakfast. Now,” orders Arthur then, patting his shoulder towards the door, not even bothering to order the kid to change clothes. As Bill’s footsteps vanish, Arthur stands and makes the beds with a wave of the wand, staring through the window in the meantime. He can see the extensive fields that surround their home; the fields that up until today, were filled with wards and all kinds of traps, and the fear of someone lurking out there, waiting for the perfect opportunity to attack Molly or himself, or one of their children. Today, their seven kids can finally go outside and enjoy the fields where they should have been able to play Quidditch and run free and de-gnome the garden. 


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry's first ten years with the Dursleys strike me as a male version of Roald Dahl's Matilda, so here's a prompt of a young Harry James Potter spending his days at the Public Library.

He could be in a wooden ship crossing an ocean in an unknown time and land. Fighting an insectoid army in an intergalactic battle the next week. Saying goodbye to a beloved horse whose bravery got him through a War. Falling in love with an unexpected, dear friend--a Robot. Trying to out-think a cheating Sicilian in pursue of saving a princess who does in fact hate her masked savior. Anywhere, any historic time, facing whoever and whatever challenge should cross his path, instead of home. 

Learning to read was without a shred of doubt the best gift he could have ever discovered. Ever since that day, ten months back, when he asked the children’s section librarian help to learn to read the Little Red Riding Hood, the hours he’s spent in the library have been a complete bliss, what gets him through the indescribably horrible hours back at home with his aunt, uncle and cousin. If they’d ignored him, he’d at least ignore them back. But it’s hard not to listen when someone’s always hammering onto you, day in and day out, how awful a kid you are, an expense, a bother, forced to work and to the house chores, and you’re bullied by whom you’d hoped would be your brother or, at least, your best friend. Yes, dreaming of adventures happening at far away lands and of happy, nurturing families is definitely better than being at home. Anything’s better than that place. 

A woman clears her throat by his side and he raises his head from the book. Camille, the blessed woman who taught him how to read, looks dow n at him with an amiable and warm smile. Harry sees her trying and failing not to glance over at him from head to toes, pulling a face upon his shabby clothes, unmistakably the wrong size, which is why he’s compelled to use a belt at waist height; shoes too uncomfortable to walk in for a long time or else his feet will start to hurt and giving him blisters; his messy hair that clearly needs a cut from someone other than a toddler and kitchen scissors; his crouched position over the book which might mean the boy urgently needs glasses. Without remarking out loud on any of it, Camille keeps a forced smile on her lips. 

“How’re you today, Harry?” she asks warmly. 

“Good, thank you, ma’am. I left the other book on the trolley, I hope that’s fine.” 

“More than fine, darling.” 

Despite her promise, he isn’t quite content and insists on it--needing to be sure. 

“I can put it back--”

“No, that’s my job, thank you,” she promises, holding him by the shoulder so he doesn’t leave the couch. “And what are you reading today?”

Using a finger as a reading point, Harry shows her the book’s cover--a shortened version of Oliver Twist. She doesn’t know what to say. He’ll refuse to reread any of the children’s books apt for his age, and this is not the first Dickens novel he reads. Even so, her common sense as a librarian and as a mother tells her that this is not a book a toddler should be reading. 

Unconcerned by her thoughts, Harry’s resumed his reading. Camille often wishes that some of the kids who come in the afternoon at the children section were like him--quiet, focused, kind, proper. Not everyone, but just some. However, every time she thinks so, such thought is immediately overruled for some reason. Something tells her no-one should be in Harry’s shoes. 

She returns to her desk and, before she takes care of her usual routine, she turns up the heat--wouldn’t want the kid to catch pneumonia, given the fact that he’s wearing his own coat on. She then attends her usual chores, as quietly as she can, trying not to disturb Harry, although he’s so caught up with his book that she doubts it matters. She could start singing out of the blue and he wouldn’t complain--the fact that he’s never asked for anything, much less complained about anything at all, beside. 

The whole time she spends go and fro with her tasks, the boy doesn’t budge from his spot one bit, beyond turning the pages at a constant pace. And the Library Director reminds her of the hour as she appears to take her to breakfast, as usual, two hours after the opening. 

“I don’t think I’ll be going today,” excuses Camille in a whisper as Aarons’ enters the children’s section. 

“Why?” demands her, surprised, not minding to keep her voice quiet. “You can’t have many visitors today,” she chuckles, signaling outside. There aren’t exterior windows in this room, but she’s obviously referring to the snow storm that’s caused Camille to get to her place six minutes late. 

“Well, there is one.” 

Aarons’ raises her eyebrows, but seems to understand all too quickly--only one possible visitor with such a horrible weather outside. 

“Let me guess,” she says, checking what she already knew and finding Harry exactly at the spot she thought she would find him. “My God, isn’t that kid dedicated,” she whispers, her hands on her waist. 

“I wish my kids take him as a model at his age,” confesses Camille. 

“Yeah, well, many grown-ups could use some reading as well,” scowls Aarons’, before returning to the issue that’s got her down here in the first place. “You staying, then?” she makes sure. 

“Want to keep an eye on him,” says Camille. 

“Oh, there’s an idea, take him to lunch,” jokes Aarons’, bursting laughing without remembering her own most fundamental rule of silence at the Public Library. “See you later.” 

Even though Aarons’ suggestion was most definitely a joke, Camille ponders it isn’t a bad idea at all. Now that she thinks about it, she’s seen Harry spending a whole day reading at the children’s section, but she’s never seen him eating anything in the meantime. The few times she’d remarked on it she assumed it was because he didn’t want to break the rule of ‘No food or drinks’ allowed in the Library, but Camille now fears it’s due to something else altogether. And even so, God knows he could use something to eat. 

Taking a deep breath, Camille pulls herself together and walks straight towards Harry, not knowing how will he receive such an idea, but certain that she must at least try. 

“Harry,” she says politely, that warm smile on her lips, “aren’t you hungry, dear?” 

“I’m fine, thank you, ma’am.” 

He’s barely raised his head from the book, trying to send a clear message, but his statement is refuted by a growl of his stomach. Ashamed and appalled, maybe, he lays a hand over his belly, blushing. Very slowly he looks up at Camille again, who’s fighting back the laughter. 

“I’ll get by till dinner time.” 

Even if she wanted to keep an open mind, that insult gets her scoffing. 

“Don’t be silly. You need to eat something. With a warm cup of tea, maybe?” she says, grabbing him by the arm to drag him out of the room. 

“I--I don’t have any money.” 

“I’d be surprised if you did. Don’t worry, I’m buying. And don’t try to say you can’t accept,” she warns, using her stern library voice. He shuts up, proving her prediction right. 

So she takes him to the first-floor cafeteria, quite empty hour considered, without much of a fuss. As she waits in line to order for the both of them, Harry chooses a table in the middle of the room--even when most kids would have chosen a spot by the windows, to see the snowed street--and keeps his head dropped till she approaches. He jumps off his chair to take the tray from Camille’s hands and help her hand out everything: two sandwiches and two teas. 

He eats in silence, obviously famished--and Camille knows he wouldn’t have confessed so to her hadn’t she forced it out of him. It takes her a lot of effort to think of a safe topic of conversation; the last time she tried to speak to him and asked about his parents, the succinct answer by: ‘They’re both dead’ left her baffled and without energy to pursue her attempts any time soon. However, she’s interested too--and intrigue surpasses everything else. 

She finds out that he’s quite bright, certainly a lot brighter and mature than she’d expected from a five or six year old--hard to tell, really, considering the shabby clothes he’s wearing and his hair. The poor boy could have been the main character in one of Dicken’s books, she reflects. Not that he speaks at all about his life or family, how he gets by or anything personal. Some weeks back he refused to give her an answer when she asked him his address for the Library card. No, it just gives her that impression. The boy comes every day since the last ten months and spends hours reading book after book, on some weekends as well. He doesn’t even talk to any of the kids his age who occupy every afternoon the Library to read comics and the funny papers. He hasn’t stopped reading ever since she taught him. 

“For a while there I felt like Matilda, you know?” he confesses a while later, in such a blue and melancholic tone that almost sets her despair. “It’s as if the writer knew me personally. But I’m no prodigy--I can’t multiply big numbers. And I’m no wizard either.” 

“Well, Harry,” Camille takes a deep breath in order to attempt to cheer him up. She leans in to be eye-level with him and forces a bright smile, “the truth is, every kid’s remarkably special in their own way,” she promises with a final wink. 

The boy looks, if possible, even more sullen. 

“Which is another way of saying that no-one’s special,” he scowls.

My God. Who’s beaten this boy?, Camille asks herself. He’s young, a kid his age should be out there, playing, dreaming big, thinking the World can all be his, having the greatest expectations from life. Who can shatter a kid’s heart this badly? 

“Or maybe it’s Alice,” says Harry, whom Camille can barely hear now. “Learning to read is like entering a new, magical world filled with fascinating characters, isn’t it.” 

“Certainly,” she says, unsure of what else she could have said, or if Harry was actually waiting for an answer from her. 

“At the beginning I felt as if every new character formed a new chapter in itself. But now, it’s more as if every new book is a chapter of its own. I’ve heard somewhere that a book is a world--the more you read, the more you travel, and those who don’t read, don’t travel at all. I couldn’t agree more.

“The only thing I do fear is not having enough time to read everything.” 

That snaps Camille out of it--the word fear. The first time he truly speaks his mind to her. She’d to anything within her power to keep him safe and protect him, should he need her to. Luckily, this one’s an easy problem. 

“Well, rest assured, sweetie, there’s time for all the books here.” 

“I hope so,” whispers Harry. 

His wish, such inherent, so genuine, scares Camille more than it could scare the poor boy. Taking advantage that he doesn’t resume talking--it’s been a privilege listening to him speak, up until now--she leans in over the table, crossing her arms. 

“Why’d you enjoy reading so much?” she asks. The question that’s been bugging her for the last ten months. 

Harry ponders for some seconds, breathing through his mouth, before uttering an answer Camille had certainly not expected coming from him: 

“The more you read, the more things you’ll learn. The more you learn, the more places you’ll go,” he says. 

“I didn’t ask you to quote Doctor Seuss,” replies Camille, a bit harsh with the boy, even though deep down she’s quite surprised that the boy should have taken the time to learn this quote, or otherwise said quote would have meant so much to him that it’d stayed with him for this long. 

He looks surprised--probably as much as she is. 

“Give me an answer with your own words, please,” she begs. 

Asking his opinion directly, so openly, seems to hit a nerve and for some terrifying seconds, Camille fears Harry won’t answer her, or worse, will flee the Library and won’t show his face around here ever again. It takes him two very long minutes to find his voice and the appropriate words. 

“It brings me peace,” he confesses finally, in a whisper. “Reading--No-one bothers me while I read. And a book won’t be mean to me. Beyond a sad ending, which is something to be expected from literature, ever since Ancient Greece authors with their tragedies, a book will never hurt its reader’s feelings. That’s simply a one-way relationship.” 

He looks like he could be talking about books and literature for a long while but, even so, his previous statement summarized overall his feelings--such genuine and whole-hearted confession that almost a whole minute goes by until Camille can collect her own feelings and thoughts. There’s got to be something she can do for him. 

“Okay,” she sighs, clearing her throat. 

In an attempt to gain some seconds to think, she plays with the tea spoon between her fingers. Upon realizing Harry’s not stopped staring at her, she looks up at him again. 

“Well then, wouldn’t want to keep you away from your passion,” she says in the end, plastering a fake warm smile on her face. “I’ll meet you upstairs in a while, OK?”

Harry nods, blissfully smiling now that the worse part of today’s conversation’s finally over. 

“Thank you for lunch, ma’am,” he whispers, jumping off his chair. 

He spins around, bound to leave the cafeteria at last, but Camille can’t just let him go that easily, without speaking her mind or offering him what she’s so desperate to give. She doesn’t think about her actions when she leans forward and grabs Harry by the wrist--her heart breaking one piece when he shrieks and shakes it off in one frenzied gesture. 

“Listen, Harry,” she whispers, sullenly, “if you ever need anything, even if it’s just a ride to your place--you must know you can ask for help, do you?” 

The boy looks into her eyes for some long seconds, reading the honest plea in them, acknowledging the effort coming from a grown-up to actually help him. And even if he accepts it--though can barely understand such an event--he can’t show it this second. He shakes off her hand and storms out of the cafeteria. 

Camille stares after him, physically unable to tell him he shouldn’t run inside a Library, left with an appalling question that she knows won’t leave her heart: who treats such a wonderful boy as a punching bag? 

Her thoughts are interrupted by Aarons’, who replaces Harry’s spot in the table, before Camille, with her own tea cup between her fingers. 

“You know, I was joking earlier when I said you should take Harry to lunch,” she says, raising her eyebrows.  
Camille chuckles along with the Library Director. “Yeah, I do,” she admits. “But, you know, he wouldn’t have eaten anything hadn’t I forced him to.” 

“Perhaps,” grants the Director, still staring at the direction Harry’s taken; reason why she doesn’t get to see Camille’s dismayed look and sarcastic eyebrows raised at her, but she can reflect on her own. “I’ll make sure the waiters offer him something to eat if he keeps coming,” she decides after two seconds of deliberation. 

“He will,” promises Cam, appreciating her kindness with a nod of her head. 

“Do his parents know he spends so many hours here?” asks Aarons’, finally facing Camille again. 

“Don’t know why you ask me,” chuckles her. 

“You know him better than anyone else in the Library,” says the Director, cocking her head. 

“And yet I don’t know him at all,” replies Camille. “I don’t know where he lives, who takes care of him, even if there’s a grown-up theoretically responsible for him who isn’t fulfilling his duties, why doesn’t he attend any school, why in the world would he be outside with such a snow storm. . .” 

“Those are a lot of questions,” Aarons’ stops her, raising a hand. 

“I wouldn’t be asking them were he a normal boy,” whispers Camille. “But he comes here, to my section, everyday, only to read. He doesn’t eat, he doesn’t speak--only when he’s talked to in the first place. He doesn’t look happy, like children his age should. He doesn’t even try to play with the other kids that swarm the children’s section in the afternoon. 

“Truth be told, I’m a little worried about him.” 

The Director looks at her in the eyes, acknowledging her genuine feelings. Vent about children’s behavior, threaten to poison the next few generations of UK citizens, sure, Cam does so in a daily basis and Aarons’ knows she’s joking. But this is something else. A mother’s honest concern for a child, even not her own child, but for a kid whose idea of a fun day is shut himself inside the Public Library to read. A day will come where he’ll spend the night in and they won’t even notice--only because it looks like he belonged in the Library, amongst all these books. 

She nods once, finishing her cup of tea, and leans forwards. 

“I see. You want to call the Social Services and/or the Police?” she asks, as if she were reporting next day’s weather. 

Despite of being worried sick about the kid, such a suggestion seems out of the question for Cam, who looks back at her, completely startled to see Aarons’ wasn’t joking one bit--in fact she looks more than willing to start making the calls as of right now. 

“The Police? Why would you--” 

“You said you were worried--” 

“Did I also say I wanted Scotland Yard meddling with an innocent boy?” 

“Innocent, yet completely unhappy,” remarks Aarons’, saying only what she’s heard Camille say about the kid--not words taken out of context. 

“That’s why I don’t think calling the Police is the best idea,” scowls her. 

“You want to know about the kid, right? Make sure he’s safe and sound, he’s got a place to live in and someone who takes care of him, someone who feeds him?” 

“Of course I do.” 

“Well, let me break it to you, Cam, but as a librarian you really can’t go around asking questions. It could raise more suspicions than--” 

“If we call Scotland Yard or Social Services they’ll treat this as an abuse case, at best. Who knows what the hell can happen to Harry then,” exclaims Camille. 

“Well, it could be an abuse case, couldn’t it?” replies Aarons’. “We know nothing about the child.” 

“OK!” begs Cam, raising her voice to make the Director shut up for once. “Okay. I get your point, but I still don’t think it’s down to us to make that call.” 

“Whose, then?” presses Aarons’. “We are witnesses to--” 

“Plus, he wouldn’t like it,” scowls Cam. She looks sideways, maybe picturing the kid in front of her, putting aside her own feelings and deliberating what that child would want her to do for him. 

“He’s five, Cam,” scowls Aarons’. “Six at the most. There are some life-changing decisions that kids shouldn’t be allowed to make--that’s why they live with their parents for so long. The taking decisions part falls down to the grown-ups. If his parents are unable to do so, or unwilling, then it’s our queue, don’t you think?” 

“Aarons’, look at him,” Camille begs. “The kid walks, speaks, reads. He’s not stupid--quite bright, in fact--he’s had an education at home. He’s fed. He’s clothed. He’s proper. It’s obvious that he has a family.” 

The Director listens to Cam speak with a mean grin on her lips and tapping on the table. She then waits a few more seconds to be sure her co-worker was over throwing at her stupid arguments before she leans over the table, one single eyebrow raised to prove her mockery as she lays all the cards on the table. 

“I could refute each and everyone of your arguments, I hope you know that. For example, I could say that a child can learn all of that on his own and--Fine!” she snaps in a yell before Camille interrupts her and the discussion goes on forever. They are, after all, civil servants at a Public Library with so much work beyond one Harry child. “I won’t call Social Services nor the Police, not today. Against my better judgement and what I believe as a mother, I won’t report this case.” 

“Thanks,” whispers Camille, reaching out a hand to caress her forearm as an appreciation gesture. 

“However, when we are forced to call them in--‘cause I’m certain we’ll be forced, in the end--you’ll be the one to make that call,” she warns sternly. 

“Annie, I promise you, at the first sign that things are worse, you won’t have the time to say ‘I told you so’ before I pick up the phone,” she promises. Last thing she wants in her life is to see a kid’s suffering. But she doesn’t want either to mess with Harry’s life; it seems complicated enough as it is for her to interfere and make things worse for the poor child.


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rubeus Hagrid's POV, going to fetch Harry Potter on his eleventh birthday to introduce him to the Wizarding World.

The weather doesn’t exactly match his thoughts. Quite the opposite, actually. The half-giant creature is ecstatic, feeling like jumping and bouncing of joy and squealing delightfully like a five-year-old. Which on the other hand, wouldn’t be very wise, though. Every second that goes by, the storm is closer to being considered a hurricane rather than a normal end-of-summer downpour, and the wind is way too strong to use the cover of his umbrella, making the fragile-looking boat too much unbalanced for him to do any stupidity. He could dry himself in a second were he to fall to the ocean, naturally; however, the dark cold water isn’t, in any way, appealing. 

But he can barely stop himself or control the blissful mood he’s been in for days now, when he received permission from the Headmaster to personally get Harry from his uncle and aunt’s house. It’s been too long –-ten years didn’t seem that much back then, but the waiting’s gotten infuriating and exasperating. A lot must have happened to Harry, and he can’t just wait to hear it all; though of course, there’s this one little thing that hasn’t happened yet, and he’s pleased he can get Harry through it himself: his introduction to the Wizarding Wolrd. It’s strange how every wizard is expecting his appearance, almost revival, when he’s been out of the loop for a whole decade. He’ll enjoy it, that’s for sure, laughs Hagrid internally, almost gloating just by imagining it. Oh, he can’t just wait for it. It’s going to be--Well, magical. There isn't another word for it. 

He remembers just too well when he received his own Hogwarts letter when he was 11. For one, he never once expected to receive it, and was absolutely enthusiastic and amazed when he heard the new Ministry regulations for half-human creatures’ education. And well, what happened in second year is still a bit of a shock to him, but at least, thanks to Dumbledore, he got to stay at Hogwarts, keep in touch with the Wizarding World, at the most magical place on Earth. And now he gets, too, the chance to show it all to Harry, to get him to Hogwarts. He must have been bouncing around, waiting impatiently for his letter. Eleven years in the Muggle-world knowing you don’t really belong to there must have been very hard on the kid. The patience each and every wizard and witch has had to endure can only be an one hundredth part of what Harry’s suffered this decade. 

It’s a pity it’s raining cats and dogs; it’s the only thing that can partially cloud everything that’s going to happen to him. Oh, he's going to enjoy Hogwarts and the magic life so much; probably nearly as much as his father did during his own years at Hogwarts. No matter how happy and fun could have possibly been this past ten years. What awaits Harry from now on will be infinitely better. He just doesn't know how come he's not answered any of the Deputy Headmistress letters, or been already at Diagon Alley and spent hours --and tones of Galleons, too-- there.

He finally gets to the island. He has a hard time getting to dry land without overturning the small boat, but he manages to stand on his feet and with two long steps, he gets to the door of the cabin and knocks. Well, he considered it knocking, though maybe he’s using a bit too much strength on a human-considered scale. Furthermore, the whole cabin doesn’t seem like it’s going to survive the storm, and moreover, he’s soaking wet from the long journey, so it almost seems strange why the door doesn’t crash sooner than his third knock. Almost ashamed, he puts it back in place, while hearing the shrieks of everyone living there, before turning around, begging for something hot to drink or eat. 

"Couldn't make us a cup o' tea, could yeh? It's not been an easy journey..."

He’s also aching for sitting somewhere comfy and warm, the opposite of the outside. A normal and considerate host would have offered him the sofa, the only place besides the beds where one could sit, but considering no-one's done so yet, he demands Dudley Dursley to move from the sofa and he sits there. 

And that's when Hagrid sees him. Harry Potter. He recognizes him at once, at first glimpse, even if he hasn’t seen him since he was a baby, and not given the fact he’s nothing like his uncle, aunt and cousin –-much more skinnier, for one thing, and he’s not wearing very fitting clothes either. But he looks so much like his father, it’s almost like he’s traveled back in time, it’s 1971 again and little James Potter has just committed his first of many, many transgressions. The thought almost makes Hagrid laugh, as he wonders internally if the school is facing another frightening wave of misbehaved misfits, aside the Weasley twins. He doesn’t think the professors could cope it. 

He keeps his thoughts to himself, though, following the social conventions and presenting himself rather than spending time chatting about the boy's father when they haven't officially met yet. He's a little astonished when Harry seems absolutely oblivious of anything he’s saying, and he doesn’t seem to recognize the job of Hogwart’s Keeper of the Keys. In a matter of seconds, when he realizes Harry has no idea at all of the Wizarding World or Hogwarts, his shock turns into anger and outrage. He stands up from the sofa, turning around –-without that much space in the small cabin-- and faces the Dursleys, his voice, unintentionally, raising an octave as he practically growls at them. And they’re lucky he doesn’t do anything more radical, which they certainly seem to deserve. 

"Do you mean ter tell me, that this boy -- this boy! -- knows nothin' abou' -- about ANYTHING?"

Before the Durlseys try to explain themselves --as if they could-- Harry's the first to speak, trying to excuse himself for knowing some things. Just muggle, mundane, common things; nothing from the Wizarding World. In that moment, Hagrid has more pity for Harry himself and the sort of life --a living lie-- he's suffered since he was one-year-old than for the stupid weather outside. Hagrid’s sure Harry’s a brilliant kid, if he inherited just a little bit of his parents' genes --and that’s just the problem, he should be aware of how much alike his parents he is! He must know why he and his parents are famous! Surely his own family should have told him about his parents’ sacrifice, why he’s an orphan! How he put a stop to a frightening era, to a whole bloody Wizarding War! That’s simply outrageous! He can’t even begin to formulate the words that’d apply to Vernon and Petunia Dursley for their behavior and actions throughout a whole decade. How could they have kept it all a secret? From Harry, the one who survived that night? Their own nephew, for Merlin’s beard! 

He's still babbling and scolding around when his brain goes a step further. He shuts up suddenly as his mind makes a mentally "click" when everything falls into place and he realizes the whole truth. The unacceptable truth of what Harry's life been like. If Harry doesn’t know about the Wizarding World, or his parents, it’s obvious he has no idea of what happened ten years earlier. And so, he indeed has no idea of anything, of what he is, what he can do, what he's destined to do, why he's famous without even knowing it. 

He takes a deep breath and looks Harry directly in the eye, hoping his answer won’t be the one he’s expecting with fear and anger. 

"Yeh don' know what yeh are?"

Before Harry can even answer, Vernon steps forward and his reaction is more than enough for Hagrid to understand what’s going on here. Why none of the letters Albus Dumbledore and Minerva McGongall sent to this family received an answer; why Harry isn’t already another member of the Wizarding World. 

"You never told him? Never told him what was in the letter Dumbledore left fer him? I was there! I saw Dumbledore leave it, Dursley! An' you've kept it from him all these years?"

The discussion that lingers for the next couple of minutes is the stupidest conversation Hagrid remembers having for --well, a few decades, to say the least. There’s no way Dursley’s going to rationally justify keeping from Harry the biggest secret of his life, and therefore, his real family and everything important concerning him. How could this have happened? So, the only truly rational choice he sees here, is for him to tell Harry every event that happened in 1981. Or at least, everything he knows, which in all honesty isn’t that much, as a lot of the story is till a big mystery. But it’ll have to be enough for now, concedes Hagrid. Explaining his own story to Harry wasn’t exactly what he had in mind on the way to this cabin, precisely; but he needs to know, he can’t be kept on the darkness any longer. Ten years is way too much for the boy who lived to know his own legend. At least, he can grant Harry a little bit of comprehension: of those small, strange details and experiences, that, seeing his face, did happen but he couldn’t quite explain. Until now. It was obvious he would have done some bits of accidental magic in his early years; coming from James and Lily Potter, everyone knows he’s destined to be a grant wizard. Though everyone would have hoped someone’d be there to explain it all to him much sooner than the age of eleven. 

Dursleys’ shout, claiming once again that Harry won’t assist Hogwarts School, is just the straw that breaks the camel’s back. Hagrid just can’t stand one more bit of stupidity, negligence and yelling this night, after what he’s discovered. And though he shouldn’t have done it, he just turns to the biggest, fattest pig in the room and aims his umbrella at him. Obviously, his parents’ reaction was to be expected: more yells, despair, and hysteria. If this keeps on much longer he’s going to lose his mind for good, so he turns to Harry, who seems ecstatic and thrilled by Hagrid’s bit of magic. Well, if it helped to make him a bit happier, he’s not going to regret performing magic when he wasn’t supposed to. And now, with the mood clearly better than when he burst into the cabin, they can get some sleep. They really should get going, but he’s not eager to get out again with that bad weather, so he just decides to take the sofa and get a good night sleep. 

Following the schedule as best as he can, as soon as they wake up they leave the cabin, as they should have done seven hours earlier, at peace, without a fuss, any discussions or a dramatic bedtime story to top it all. Harry seems most eager to follow him, and so they leave the cabin, get in the only boat of the island and, with a little bit of help, get to the land in less than half an hour, with Harry bombing him with a question after the other. Though it probably should tire Hagrid, it actually doesn’t; it’s more than normal for Harry to be so curious and have so many questions a world where he’s supposed to belong to and from which he’s never had any kind of contact before. He’s more than pleased to be able to answer them all, forgetting the one story Harry asked from him last night, and remembering his own introduction to the Wizarding World so many years before. 

The questions keep on coming till they get to Diagon Alley. After crossing the passageway through the Leaky Cauldron, Harry seems way too thunderstruck to keep interrogating Hagrid as they start walking down the street. He can’t discern who’s enjoying himself more; if Harry, seeing and absorbing everything he sees for the first time --owls and other wizard pets, wizards dressed in robes, wands, race broomsticks, cauldrons, quills and parchments-- or Hagrid, just from seeing the look on Harry’s face. The poor lad seems completely and utterly lost among so many new and strange things, all of which attracts his attention at once, wanting to discover all of it right this moment. It’s hard for the both of them -- and Hagrid probably should feel a little bit ashamed of his lack of concentration on the matter at hand – to focus enough to remember the list of school materials and equipment required from first-year students. Hagrid grabs it and keeps it on his hand, a constant reminder of why they’re here today, and accompany Harry from one shop to another, getting him to Gringott’s, Malkin's Robes for All Occasions, Flourish and Blotts, the Apothecary and finally, Ollivander’s. And though Hagrid tries to keep in mind his duties towards Hogwart’s business, and the list he’s got, it’s still hard for him to not join in Harry’s enthusiasm, who looks like he’d want to stay couple hours in every shop they enter, asking about every small item on sale, as he probably would if he let him. 

Though he would let him so gladly, he reckons. He deserves it, after all. This is his true world. Where he belongs, where he’s always belonged. Right from his birthday he was destined to assist Hogwarts School, go to Diagon Alley, eat and drink from time to time at the Leaky Cauldron. He wasn’t supposed to live a stupid, dull, abnormal muggle life; and much less, a neglectful, loveless one. He should have learnt about all of this years ago. 

"Just yer wand left - A yeah, an' I still haven't got yeh a birthday present." 

"You don't have to --" 

"I know I don't have to. Tell yeh what, I'll get yer animal. Not a toad, toads went outta fashion years ago, yeh'd be laughed at - an' I don' like cats, they make me sneeze. I'll get yer an owl. All the kids want owls, they're dead useful, carry yer mail an' everythin'."

It seems like the best deal he could make, as he understands how Harry will only accept a present if he makes him to, and the Hogwart’s list of school supplies is a good excuse. He’s seen how the kid seems to try his best not to be a burden for anyone, obviously, as a result of his stupid, neglectful muggle family, which for some reason includes any kind of presents; seeing how the Dursleys dressed him in his cousin’s old drags, he gets the Dursleys didn’t usually get him presents, not even adequate clothes. And if this is really Harry’s first introduction to the Wizarding World, at all, if this is the first contact he’s got of his own world in all his life, until the day he became 11, he deserves something special for his birthday.


	35. Chapter 35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not canon. In Harry's first year, Prof. McGonagall asks to meet her at her office, with a pleasant proposal in mind.

“Mr. Potter, could you come with me for a second?”

The call comes right as they leave Defense Against the Dark Art’s classroom after an extenuating and cold December Monday. Having your Head of House calling you out in the middle of nowhere scares the eleven-year-old to death, specially when he doesn’t recall having done anything that may require a private chat with Professor McGonagall. But it’s clear to see he can’t refuse to the demand or try delaying the meeting. 

Plus, he’s blocking the way out of the classroom, holding up a tired and angry line of students who just want to get to their Common Room and relax by the fire. Before he can say or do anything else, Ron grabs his backpack and books, nodding at him. “Thanks,” whispers Harry, before his friends leave his side, headed for the Gryffindor Tower, leaving him all alone. 

Shaking barely noticeable, Harry steps closer to the Head of House, who’s kept on staring at him with her usual stern glare. 

“Of course, Professor McGonagall,” he answers politely. 

He receives a nod as a response and the Head of House turns around and starts marching, making him walk with long steps to keep up the pace to her office. She holds the door open for him and he enters slowly, careful not to touch or break anything, sitting only when she indicates him to and she’s also taking her place behind the desk. 

“Have a biscuit, Potter,” allows McGonagall, offering him a tin platter from one corner of the desk. 

Unsettled and restless, but without daring saying no to her, Harry grabs one randomly and eats the smallest of bites when his Head of House does so too. 

“Fancy a cup of tea?” 

“Sure,” he accepts in a whisper, not gasping the meaning of this late-time snack so soon before dinner, or how in the world could this lead to a lecture and detention. Within seconds he finds himself holding a warm cup of tea with his right hand, the biscuit still almost intact in his left. 

Though she hasn’t said a word yet, McGonagall’s stern façade has disappeared as soon as they’ve started their tea, and so, strangely, Harry relaxes a bit more on his chair. He can drink calmly the tea and even dares to grab a second biscuit without even asking for permission--after all, by the time he’s finished his first snack, McGonagall’s already gobbled down her third. 

Only when the Head of House’s made the cups vanished he acknowledges this wasn’t the aim of this private meeting.

 “Professor McGonagall, I must ask--Have I done something wrong?” he asks in a frightened whisper. His behavior has been overall great since the Quidditch match--moreover, they did win the match, and he thought the Head of House was ecstatic about it. 

He can’t think of anything that could have upset Professor McGonagall to this point. Apart from doing some research at the library on Nicholas Flamel, that is. But the only thing she could be aware of is that he, Hermione and Ron are spending an awful amount of time at the library, which is odd in itself, but not the aim of their research--they haven’t even told Madame Pince. 

And, well, being frank, he’s been obsessed with that damn Mirror, but she can’t have summoned him here because of that--certainly she knows the Headmaster talked reason into him. And in any case, ever since Dumbledore changed the location of the Mirror of Erised, he abode his promise and didn’t go looking for it--though he still craves that simple family picture with him, his parents and grandparents. Thinking isn’t exactly a crime, much less in a school, isn’t it? 

“Now, you don’t have to worry, Mr. Potter,” replies Professor McGonagall, interrupting his thoughts, the briefest smile passing by her face. “I have a question for you--Do you know what a Pensieve is?” 

He holds to his chair, sweat starting to drip from his forehead, wishing for Hermione to be here, since she’d already raised her hand in the air, frenzied to give a full-detailed answer to the Deputy Headmistress. He, on the other hand, has no clue. What if this is something she’s taught them at class? 

“I’m assuming by your silence that you don’t,” resumes McGonagall, “since it’s nothing a teacher would have told a first-year student, either.” 

Harry exhales the air he hadn’t noticed he was holding. 

“So, what is a Pensieve, Professor?” 

Instead of answering right away, McGonagall flicks her wand and the doors of a cabinet behind her open as one object hovers out of it. Its size is similar to a salad tray, though looks heavier, since it’s apparently made of marble or shallow stone, with inscriptions and strange symbols on its sides. 

The Pensieve flies towards them and stops on the desk, between McGonagall and Harry, who eyes it with interest, fascinated by its strange silvery gleam. 

“This is,” says the Deputy Headmistress matter-of-factly. “The easiest way to explain its purpose is to say it helps preserve one’s memories, in order to, if the person so wishes, review them again at any given time. As you can understand, it becomes quite handy for those who’ve had a long, eventful life.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” yes Harry, feeling obliged to answer in some way. 

He leans forward and sees a dozen different pictures from varying situations and timelines, noticing one in particular which happened very recently, not two months ago, from the Quidditch game between Slytherin and Gryffindor--of him almost swallowing the Snitch. He’s forced to hide a chuckle, looking up nervously at McGonagall in case he’s insulted or outraged her in any way, but she’s no longer seating behind her desk. 

She’s grabbing something from the same cabinet where she kept the Pensive. When she returns, she’s bought a couple flasks with her and maybe for the second or third time since he’s met her, he sees her smiling openly at him. 

“So. . . Did you ask me here for any reason in particular?” asks him, eyeing wearily the flasks she’s holding. 

He realizes it could be any number of things. She may be planning on giving him a lesson--he might have failed miserably the last written assignment and want him to remember what she taught exactly. She might be holding evidence they’ve been busted looking for Nicholas Flamel. She could be expecting an explanation on why he’s so bad at Potions. Best case scenario yet--she might want to discuss some of his biggest errors during the Quidditch match. 

All these ideas run through his head at high speed and his mind just can’t stop coming up with the most stupid, yet terrifying, possibilities. Within two seconds, McGonagall’s warm smile isn’t anymore a peaceful nor soothing sign, but could very possibly be the most wicked, mean smile. 

“Yes, I did, Mr. Potter,” says her, without confirming nor denying his fears. “What I wanted you to see is--this.” 

She carefully pours one of the flask’s contents into the Pensieve, a strange silver vapor. Harry leans in again as the gas becomes liquid, begins to take shape and colors. Few seconds in, the image is perfectly clear: Harry recognizes the Great Hall at night, floating candles lightening the room, staff and students sitting at their places. He thinks he recognizes also what time of the year it is--given the amount of frightened-looking students with plain black robes standing in front of the staff’s table, it has to be the first night of term. His thoughts are confirmed when the image turns slightly to focus on the Sorting Hat as well, a younger version of his Head of House standing beside it with a long parchment at her hands. 

However, beyond his Head of House, he doesn’t recognize anyone else in the picture and he’s tempted to ask her about it when the past McGonagall speaks. 

“Lily Evans,” she calls to stage, attracting Harry’s attention at once. 

Among the crowd, a small, nervous, red-headed girl emerges and climbs the steps to the dais, her bright green eyes ogling anxiously the Sorting Hat. Harry stares in shock as the girl sits uncomfortably on the stool and the young McGonagall places the Sorting Hat on her head--moment when present Harry looks up at the current Head of House, who is now barely containing her emotions.

 “Is this--?” 

“Your parents Sorting Ceremony on September 1st, 1971,” confirms her when words fail him. 

“GRYFFINDOR!” shouts the memory’s Sorting Hat, and Harry looks down at the Pensieve to see his mother, the eleven-years-old version of Lily Evans, leave the dais clearly released of an obvious heavy burden and headed towards the Gryffindor’s table, placed at the same place where it is today, being received by cheers and applause by all the House members. 

As McGonagall calls somebody else’s name, the picture fades away slowly into white. 

“No,” shrieks Harry, unconsciously jumping off his chair, approaching the device, “please--” 

The picture reappears--not much time has passed in the memory, since nothing much has changed, perhaps there’re less students in front of the Sorting Hat. 

“James Potter,” calls McGonagall. 

His father, an eleven-year-old kid who looks just like him, spectacles included, messy black hair, steps forward, more confident and content than Lily Evans was. On his way to the stool he winks at someone, presumably sitting at the Gryffindor’s table, but before Harry can wonder about it, his father’s already seating on the stool and the Sorting Hat doesn’t even ponder for ten seconds straight before announcing “GRYFFINDOR!”. 

An outburst of celebration as James spins to the table and shakes hands with a couple of older students, as the picture disappears once again. Professor McGonagall starts talking before any other memory appears, forcing Harry to grudgingly look up from the Pensieve. 

“It’s unfair that so many people here met your parents when you never got the chance to,” she says slowly, trying to keep her voice steady, “so I figured I could recollect some of those memories to show them to you, so you could meet them and know a little bit about them beyond the sacrifice they made for you.” 

“I appreciate it, Professor,” whispers Harry, not being able to hide he’s flat-out sobbing. 

“However,” she resumes, sternly this time. Of course, it couldn’t have been McGonagall if this entire meeting didn’t come with a more serious warning of some kind, “I am also aware of the dangers of the temptation for succumbing to one’s desires--that is why Pensieves are considered such dangerous and treacherous objects in the Magic World. Very similarly to what happens with the Mirror of Erised,” she adds. She obviously knows too his stumbling upon the Mirror and the warning he got from Dumbledore and, after stressing it, lets it go. “That’s why I’m asking you to be cautious, Mr. Potter. Many people before you have lost their tracks because of objects like this one--and I won’t let that happen to you. I’ve always taken care of my lions to the best of my abilities.”

“Professor, with all due respects,” interjects him, a bit outraged, standing up to appear taller without realizing it, “you can’t just go around showing to people what they most desire and then take it away saying it was all a joke.” 

He gasps for some seconds, wondering where on Earth he got the nerve to speak this disrespectfully to his Head of House, but he will not ask forgiveness now--in spite of receiving a cold, stern and yet surprised look from McGonagall.

“I won’t pretend to understand what you’re feeling, Mr. Potter,” she says slowly, measured words, “but you should be so kind to remember your place and your manners.” 

“Apologize,” he says at once; and although he tries, his mouth just won’t keep shut for long, “but Professor, you can’t really blame me, or put me on detention, for wanting to know about my parents and being interested when you’ve offered me this,” he yells, signaling for the Pensieve. 

She keeps quiet for some long seconds, maybe an unbearable full minute or so, until Harry’s breathing evens and he finds his seat again. 

“Mr. Potter, I haven’t shown you this to make you feel miserable or because I pity you--and I certainly wasn’t aiming for a sick, pathetic joke. I too want you to know all you can about your parents. I am allowing you to view these memories, treasure them, learn about your parents’ lives while at Hogwarts.” 

Breathing heavily, Harry lets her words and meaning sink in. McGonagall’s voice was harsh and cold, but also as caring as it could have been--a side of her he’s never seen before. She’s concerned for him--for his well-being in his quest of knowing about his parents and family and also, for him not losing sight of his actual life. 

“But that will happen on your own terms, when you’re ready,” she adds. 

Those last words just shock Harry’s whole system. He stares blankly at her, without being able to pronounce a word, much less form a coherent thought, hoping to hear an explanation. She’s lost him again. 

“You’ve learnt too much in the last three months and a half, Mr. Potter,” resumes McGonagall, her arms crossed, trying to act like the composed, upright woman she’s been since he’s met her, “more than an eleven-year-old should bear. So, this is for you. It contains all the memories of your parents that I could manage to gather. You need a Pensieve to see them--and that’s why my office and my Pensieve are at your entire disposal when you feel ready.” 

Harry looks down at the small flask she’s offering him, gleaming strangely with that condensed cloud of blue vapor that contains seven years worth of memories and anecdotes of his parents. He could watch all of it now. Meet his parents, know who they were, how they acted, everything. In his palm he’s got exactly what he’s craved his entire life. He does know these are just memories--a film he cannot change, no matter how many times he sees it. And despite his miserable, rotten eleven first years of his life, he wouldn’t have wanted it any other way, not now when he’s learnt the truth.

“Thank you, Professor McGonagall,” he whispers slowly. 

Still not knowing what to say, undecided, he deliberates for some seconds, eyebrows frowned, staring down at the flask. 

“I appreciate what you did for me even before knowing me properly,” he resumes, remembering now his manners, “but I’m not going to see this today,” he decides finally. 

“Mr. Potter--” exclaims McGonagall, stuttering for the first time since he met her. Taken aback--he’s almost proud of it. But he puts the flask inside one of the robes’ pockets, as a way of putting an end to the deliberation and moving aside the temptation. 

“You’re right, Professor. I am not ready to see this. I’m still coming to terms with the sacrifice my parents did,” he explains. “I don’t want to see all of this just yet. I will tell you when I feel ready to do so.” 

He stands up locking eyes with his Head of House, who needs a couple of seconds to find words herself. 

“I--” she stutters momentarily, before regaining her usual composure, showing the briefest of grins, as if somehow, this whole ordeal had been a test--and who know his results. “You’ve just proven to be quite a sensitive and responsible wizard, Mr. Potter,” she praises. “It shows responsibility and maturity beyond what I’d have expected from an first-year student with your history.” 

Despite her apparent contentment and acclamation, for some reason Harry feels as if he’s given her the exact response she was waiting to hear. Maybe that’s what she’d have expected from one of his parents. Guess he’ll find out eventually--can’t wrap his mind about it right now. 

“Again, thank you, Professor,” he whispers, his voice breaking slightly. “Someday I’ll come by again to see this.” 

“And that day I will be here to fulfill my word,” she promises. 

“Good evening,” he bids farewell. 

He bows slightly towards Professor McGonagall, who nods back at him. Sending a last brief look filled with remorse to the Pensieve, Harry turns around and leaves the office without another word, knowing he’d just break down if he spoke. It's just so utterly harsh, so painfully heartbreaking, that he's not certain if he's ready to explain this whole conversation to Ron or Hermione. It concerns his family--it's private. He'll wait for some time before saying anything--before going to the Deputy Headmistress' office and ask permission to use her Pensieve.

Instead of heading straight back to the Common Room, he takes a couple turns and within minutes he's lost--and prefers things this way. It'll give him time to clear his head, return to the Gryffindor Tower after he's sure he won't start crying before his classmates and, moreover, time to make up some kind of excuse for Professor McGonagall's true reasons why he called him out to her office.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's not canon but I just feel like this is something Minerva'd have done for Harry, since she knew his parents and was their Head of House too.


	36. Chapter 36

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Year 1993; place The Burrow; time, Christmas Holidays. It's really late at night and yet Mr. Weasley comes home to find Molly still sewing a last-minute jumper.

It’s quiet at the Burrow this Tuesday night of December. The only light comes from the bright waning moon and a small nightstand downstairs at the dining room; the only sounds, from the casual owl and gnomes and from the needles at the hands of one hurried and long time professional Molly Weasley. She’s tired--her eyes are burning, her fingers are numb and make some mistakes she shouldn’t be doing, her back aches from the sitting position she hasn’t moved in for hours. And yet, she won’t, she just can’t stop knitting. She’s got one more sweater to do this Christmas, and she won’t sleep till it’s done. This is a necessity, a requirement, not exactly an annual granted present; she has to make up for ten years of rubbish presents --or stuff that can’t even be considered as actual presents. 

Of course, she’s not stupid, she’s aware of the time and her abilities, so she’s using the easiest knitting pattern there is, and she gave up right from the start making the capital letter in the middle. The result, after all, will be almost as good as the rest of the jumpers; and she just hopes he’ll like it. Though sadly, she can guess that the boy’s expectations aren’t that high. 

The fireplace at the kitchen enlightens with a green light and a blast of wind and a rush of ash hovers the place for a few seconds; obviously, Arthur is arriving from the Ministry. Molly doesn’t even look away from her work, knowing her husband will find her soon enough. She hears how, with quiet and silent, yet tired, steps, Arthur gets to the kitchen, and how he stops mid-track, speechless, obviously surprised by seeing her still up and working and, moreover, on knitting. He was expecting her to be asleep, which would be the usual given the late hour, and furthermore, given the fact that’s Christmas’ Eve. 

“Molly?” he asks, almost concerned. “I thought you’d be sleeping by now. Tomorrow we have to leave early, you know.” 

“Yes, I do know that. I’m almost finished, just a couple hours,” answers her, without looking up from her work. 

“I thought you were already finished with all seven jumpers?” For some reason, the fact of finding Molly still knitting at this hour has shocked Arthur that much that he can’t just move from his spot. 

“Yes, but I’m doing an eighth one,” clarifies Molly. 

“Did we adopt another kid and you didn’t tell me?” asks Arthur jokingly, going to hang his coat and hat at the entrance. 

“Actually, we have,” snaps back Molly. Surprised by her answer, Arthur goes back to the dining room, standing just a few feet from her, grabbing the back of the closest chair for support, as he can’t catch up his wife. “Harry Potter.” 

“What?” stammers Arthur, understanding less by the minute. “Harry--?” 

“I told you we met him on September 1st at the station, right?” 

“Yes, you did, but from there to knit him a jumper for Christmas--Don’t you think you’re overstepping just a little bit?” demands Arthur, trying to keep his voice cool and speaking in an almost mocking way. “He lives with his uncle and aunt, surely they will--” 

“Ron wrote this morning,” interjects Molly, signaling with a nod of her head the opened letter at the table. “Harry’s uncle and aunt don’t usually give him anything for Christmas or his birthday. Anything considered a present by a parent or a rational human being, that is.”

How can someone give as a present a coat hanger, a pair of old sock, or simply money? Can there be something more trivial, more stupid, less affectionate than money? She can’t believe those things can be considered as proper presents in the Muggle world. Maybe Arthur could look into that--his obsession could be useful for once. Investigate if Muggles are so different from wizard’s common sense even when it comes down to presents for a son. 

“I--what? Are you serious?” Arthur demands, astonished, picking up the letter and taking a very quick glance at it.

He ends up with a disgusted face and has to sit down on a chair, bewildered. Even them, struggling financially every year, get their children some kind of special present for their birthdays; and for Christmas everyone receives the customary jumper. It’s not much, but no-one’s ever complained. How could some parents, no matter how financially broke or otherwise with the water up to their necks, do that to an eleven-year-old kid? 

“From what Ronald’s been telling me, Harry’s relationship with his uncle, aunt and cousin isn’t close or even affectionate. At all,” says Molly, almost spitting in every word. 

“That’s an understatement,” groans Arthur, fighting the urge to burn the letter.

Or rather, fighting the impulse to get back to the Ministry, find out Harry’s muggle address and have a little and serious chat with his aunt and uncle. How has this happened? Everyone thought that by keeping Harry hidden, away from the Wizarding World, he’d be safer, at least till the appropriate time came. But it doesn’t seem like it ended up being the perfect solution for the kid, no matter if they were his only family alive at the time. 

“The poor kid. He loses his parents when he’s an one-year-old, he survives the Killing Curse without no-one knowing how, he becomes a world-wide legend before he can barely speak or walk, he’s destined to be on the loop of the Wizarding World all his life, and ends up in a neglectful muggle family.” After her recounting, Molly sighs deeply and lifts her head, fighting back a sob, looking at her husband with a mournful face. Though her hands keep on working by themselves, knowing the movements too well. 

“Whose idea was that, I keep wondering?” 

“I don’t know. Maybe his uncle and aunt demanded to keep him, as he was their only nephew. . . Or perhaps it was Dumbledore’s. I honestly don’t know, I didn’t even question it back then.” 

“Neither did I,” confesses Molly with a sigh, resuming her work now that she’s seen she isn’t the only one who that day of ten years early, forgot to ask, beyond the celebrations, what was to happen to the kid that had brought up the happiness they were experiencing at the moment. No-one thought of the most important baby in the world, when he most needed help. 

Arthur keeps quiet and contemplates Molly’s work for almost five minutes, in silence, without bothering her. A smile spreads across his lips gradually, and then he leans forwards till he’s within touching reach from and to his wife. 

“You are truly an incredible woman, wife and mother. I love you,” he whispers before kissing her cheek. 

“Thanks. Me too. Now eat, you must be starving. Your dinner’s at the countertop.” 

“I am, actually,” confirms him, standing up and looking around for his plate. When he finds it, he summons the cutlery and within seconds the table is set for himself, as he sits down again with an exhausted sigh. Having cleared up everything concerning Molly’s late work, he has no remorse upon eating something. “You ate, I hope?” 

“Of course.” 

“Talked to Bill today.” says Arthur after he’s taken his first bite. “Well, he was expecting my owl, which I forgot entirely. Do you know where’s--?” 

“Errol is flying back to Hogwarts as soon as I finish this,” says Molly. And her tone and look are so stern and intimidating, that Arthur has barely a chance to reply and rather keep stuffing food in his mouth. He fully understands how Fred and George are unable to stand one of her scoldings. 

They catch on each other’s day and work while Arthur eats his dinner and when he’s done, he sends the dishes and cutlery to the sink with another flick of his wand. By then, Molly’s nowhere near to finish the jumper, though she seems determined to do so before it’s Christmas Day. And he stares again at her knitting, marveling at her experienced fingers, that move so quickly he barely sees them, much less he’s able to watch them as in to study the correct movements. 

“Why don’t you do it magically? You’d finish way sooner,” he asks all of a sudden. 

He knows he’s overstepped upon receiving one of Molly’s looks. Though luckily, she smiles softly afterwards.

“It’s not the same, you know it. And if this is the first real present Harry’s ever going to get for Christmas, I want to do it right.”

“Of course you do,” remarks Arthur, leaning comfortably on his chair. He doesn’t have an rush to get to sleep, despite how tired he was when he finally got the chance to get back home, being quite satisfied with watching his wife knit. “You know,” he adds a couple minutes later, “I always wanted a non-ginger one.” 

He makes Molly snort, though, as was predictably, she doesn’t look up at him, just shakes her head at the joke. Considering it’s a perfectly reasonable good mood, Arthur finally stands up, ready to get to bed, and kisses his wife’s hair affectionately; Molly leans on him, lingering the touch.

“Don’t stay up too late. There’s this one other son we’re supposed to meet tomorrow morning.”


	37. Chapter 37

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In their first year, Harry and company set themselves to protect the Sorcerer's Stone, a task that could very much certainly lead the three of them to their death. Luckily for them, their Head of House always takes care of her lions.

Minerva McGonagall can’t find her sleep tonight. And talking from personal experience, that’s a bad sign. 

The night one of Grindlewald’s attacks endangered her parents’ lives she stayed awake all night long, till at dawn her Head of House fetched her and sent her to St. Mungo’s. Prior to that fatal Halloween night 1981 she rolled around for hours by her husband’s side until she got the owl from Dumbledore ordering her to keep an eye on the Dursley’s. 

And her sixth sense, that she wouldn’t call it a “gift” for Seer, for Merlin’s sake, is not limited to catastrophes. When those four so-called Marauders boys roamed Hogwarts, her sleep was interrupted almost on a weekly basis. She thought she’d gotten used to it by the time the Weasley twins got to Hogwarts, though their misdemeanors wasn’t something she’d expected, considering the track records from Billy, Charlie and, lastly, Percy Weasley. 

So now, when once again she knows there’s no factual chance of getting any sleep tonight, thanks to some of her Lions, she knows exactly who’s responsible for it this time around. That trio. 

The words “but it’s important” and “someone’s going to try and steal the Stone” chime in her head again and a shiver runs down her spine. Coming from three eleven-year-olds it’s barely imaginable to consider the eventuality of a threat against this School or worse, the Sorcerer’ Stone. But considering it comes from the brightest 11-y-o she’s known, the son of James and Lily Potter and the latest sibling of one, if not the most Gryffindor awarded family in Hogwarts history, remorse has sown in her mind. 

What if--?

She doesn’t even want to begin pondering the possibility. She wouldn’t be if Albus hadn’t had the brightest idea of hiding the Philosoper’s stone within Hogwarts boundaries. Okay, maybe it would have been stolen had it been kept at Gringotts for another day. But maybe the robber would have been caught. 

Defeated, giving up on sleep altogether, she gets out of the bed. She’s a woman of action, rather than to quiet, waiting, wondering and hoping for the best; if she’s out there and there is trouble, at least she won’t have to regret spending the night in her chambers instead of trying to stop those three. 

She reaches for the dressing down resting on the bed’s arms and tights it on her waist, grabs her wand and grips her night cap, everything she’s got at hand that can guard her from the cold outside her chambers warmed by a nice fire in the chimney. Indeed, the cold night air freezing her breath and tip of the nose, as well as the dead quiet of the corridors, almost convince her to get back to her chambers. Almost. She needs to be sure--those tree might be headed for their death if she doesn’t stop them, there’s no way three eleven-year-old kids can surpass the many traps protecting the Stone. 

She heads straight for the Common Room, as fast as she’s able to--which isn’t an insignificant speed, considering her age and her life experiences--wishing to know some shortcut to the Tower, or be able to Apparate within Hogwarts grounds so she’s not forced to climb three floors and possibly waste an awful amount of time to check the well-being of three of her students. 

The faint blue light, unmistakably coming from a wand, some corners later, prove her right. 

Or so she thought--when she reckons the light’s located at a way too low height to be from a six-year-old kid, much less an eleven-year-old. 

“Minerva?” asks Professor Flitwick, coming to a surprised halt upon seeing her outside. “It’s not your shift tonight.”

“Don’t I know it,” she scowls--needn’t the reminder. 

Which triggers at once the Professor’s anxious system. 

“Is there a problem?” he asks, a bit anxious. 

“Might be. Have you seen any students out of bed tonight?”

“Of course not. And I’ve checked the whole School.”

That system didn't stop either the Weasley twins or the Marauders back in their days. Perhaps it is time for a renewal of their surveillance system. The question remains, however--why every rule breaker and mischief-maker comes from her House? She’s done nothing to deserve this.

“I have to check something. Keep both eyes open, please. Warn Mr. Filch if you see him.”

“What am I looking for exactly?” he demands, weary. Probably also remembering some similar nights spent out of bed looking for either the Weasley twins or any of the Marauders. Merlin, did those bangs give the Staff troubles. 

“ _Three stupid lions._ ”

Without further explanations--she truly doesn’t think they’re needed altogether, Flitwick must know, or at least suspect, who’s she talking about--she passes by the Professor and runs towards the Gryffindor Tower. As she’d expected, the Fat Lady guarding the entrance complains about the late-hour call, almost convincing Minerva to go back to her chambers and uselessly try to sleep again, but she storms forwards, entering the Tower. 

She stands still, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness, as she eyes the Common Room. It’s completely quiet and cold--the only noise it’s her heavy breathing, as she’s reached the Tower gasping and her lungs burning. It’s been hours since the last students went to bed. The only things our of place are the usual books, school backs or robes from lazy students who for some reason refuse to believe in a tidy Common Room. 

“Sir Connor, please go fetch Mr. Percy Weasley,” she demands glancing a painting. 

The knight nods once, lowers the visor over his eyes and leaves his painting riding a horse. 

She’s wrong again--there is someone laying on the floor, by a couch. Mr. Longbottom, who else. Apparently asleep, arms on his side, without uttering a sound; however, with a quick glance Minerva understands he is not; eyes open, not moving an inch. He's been paralyzed--Miss Granger’s doing, no doubt. So they are out of bed. 

“Sir Percival, call Madame Pomfrey at once,’’ she orders sharply to another knight, who leaves immediately as well, after bowing to her. 

She kneels by Neville’s side. Despite the enchantment’s NEWT level at least, it was performed beautifully; Mr. Lonngbottom’s still breathing, safe and sound. This spell could have gone wrong on so many levels that she doesn’t dare to ask. 

Mr. Weasley storms down the stairs, fully clothed to show up before his Head of House, though with some obvious vacancies due to the hour--his night cap’s cocked, his robe is upside down, his shoes aren’t properly tied. 

“What is it, Professor?” he demands quite frenzied. 

“Do me a favor and check if Miss Granger, Mr. Potter and Mr. Ronald Weasley are upstairs in their dorms.”

The petition obviously startles the poor man--specially when his youngest brother’s mentioned. He doesn’t move from his spot, eyebrows frowned, waiting for an explanation that unfortunately she can’t give him. 

“Is there a reason why they shouldn't be, Professor?” he asks wearily, though his disposition changes quite drastically after one perceiving look from the Deputy Headmistress. “Of course there is, you wouldn’t ask me otherwise. On it, ma’am.”

He bows his head and spins around to climb up the boy’s staircases, attempting to do it so fast that he almost falls stumblest into a couple steps once or twice. As he disappears upstairs, Madame Pomfrey arrives at the Common Room, also startled by the hour. 

“Dear Merlin, Minerva, what’s--”

She stands up and talks as calmly as possible as she signals for Neville, still laying on the floor. In spite of her serene tone, Madame Pomfrey does nothing but freak out upon discovering the boy and kneels by his side, checking his vitals. 

“ _Who in the World_ \--” 

“He’s just paralyzed,” says Minerva, cutting her off before she wakes up half the Gryffindor students. 

“Yes, I gather that much, my question is--” 

“Is--Can you get him back to normal?” demands McGonagall rather sharply. 

“Minerva--” 

“That’s the only thing that must worry you tonight, Poppy. Can you or can’t you?”

“Of course I can,” exclaims the nurse, apparently a bit insulted that Minerva had to ask her that. 

“Excellent. Then take this boy to the infirmary, turn him back to normal and take good care of him tonight,” Minerva orders, so as to make clear what are Madame Pomfrey’s priorities right now. 

“But--”

“Poppy, please,” she begs, trying to make her understand she doesn’t need to concern herself with anything else beyond those three tasks. “Dumbledore’s gone, but I’m taking care of everything--trust me. Don’t worry, just look after Mr. Longbottom. A nice warm cup of tea would help him, I think.”

“Yes, of course,” the nurse whispers. 

Finally remembering her duties towards this School’s students, the woman produces a stretcher by Mr. Lonbottom’s side and, using the Levitation Charm, places his body on the stretcher and covers him with a couple of thick blankets. She sends Minerva one last demanding and distraught look; but after receiving a penetrating, stern one in return, she crosses the passageway in silent--the wand directed to the stretcher so it follows her hovering some feet above the ground. 

By the time the Fat Lady’s portrait’s shutting, Percy’s coming down the stairs, as fast as he can--she guesses the report she’s going to get. But on the other side, Minerva’s managed to get Mr. Longbottom out of the scene before Percy realized anything--and so no bells ring amongst the students just yet.

“Professor, I don’t understand, I didn’t find them in their dorms,” says Percy, out of breath, completely crestfallen. 

“I didn’t expect you to. Thanks for your work, Mr. Weasley, and sorry for waking you up this late.”

“Not at all, Professor. Is there something else I can do?” he begs. 

“Thank you, but not tonight, Mr. Weasley,” Minerva replies categorically, hoping he gets the idea. 

She was hoping Mr. Weasley, so fond of rules, would get the idea, but he doesn’t. It’s normal, however: he’s a Prefect who has to take care of all Gryffindor students, but above all, he’s a man who was responsible for his younger sibling. Certainly he hopes he could do much more to find him--it’s not Percy’s fault that his brother keeps company with the son of a mischief-maker, or is keen to misdemeanors due to his twin brothers. 

“Ma’am, please, if my brother’s in any kind of trouble, I’d like to know and to help, if possible.”

“If Mr. Ronald and company are under trouble will depend on me finding them before they run into danger,” explains Minerva sharply, purposefully making the responsibility fall on her shoulders so the boy doesn’t feel any special embarrassment. “Henceforth--”

“Understood, Professor,” whispers Percy, head dropped. “I beg you call me should I be of assistance.”

“Appreciate it. For now, go back to sleep, Mr. Weasley,” says Minerva, her tone sweeter than earlier. 

Even if it is grudgingly, Percy follows her sweet command and, not entirely certain if he shouldn’t press on it, he climbs up the stairs to his dorm, very slowly, as if hoping Prof. McGonagall would change her mind and call him back. 

She doesn’t. And moreover, she doesn’t waste any time either; after making sure Percy isn’t stalling and planning on staying awoke at the Common Room or worse, following her in order to find out what is going on, she leaves the Tower. This time, she faces the Fat Lady, cutting off her complaints about the time. 

“I must ask you not to let anyone else leave the Tower till morning--though it’s unlikely anyone else tries.”

“Certainly hope so,” scowls the madame in the painting. 

“Should any student attempt to leave the Tower before sunrise, you are not, I repeat, you are not entitled to let them out of the Common Room till I say so. On my authority,” Minerva insists sharply, hoping to get her message clear and concise. “Understood?” 

“Yes, of course--I can perform my duties.” 

“Thank you, ma’am. Have a good night,” Minerva bids farewell, storming away before the Fat Lady tries to stall her by asking any questions. 

She dashes through the corridors, returning to her chambers, and in the meantime she sends a message via Patronus, the quickest way she can think of to communicate with Professor Flitwick and warn him about the whereabouts of three of their youngest--and probably stupidest--students. _‘Professor Flitwick, check the third floor corridor. Should anyone try to get past, stop them by any means necessary. Should the trapdoor be already open, do not try to get in and chase them--could be dangerous.’_

When she reaches her office, slamming the door shut behind her without any big fuss, she lights a couple candles with a flick of her wand, grabs the first piece of parchment on sight and quickly scribbles a frenzied note to Albus, urging his immediate return to the school. Mellie seems to sense her state of mind and stands without moving or making any sound as Minerva straps the succinct and frantic note to her paw; and, as soon as she opens the window, the owl sets flying immediately, apparently understanding the emergency. 

That part done, Minerva then sits down on her desk, catching her breath. One could say she’s done almost everything she could have done--but Merlin knows there’s no way she can return to her chambers now. 

Before her there’re two columns of seven piles worth of homework assignments and exams she’s to mark, reminding her her duties towards the pupils. But there’re three students that require her immediate attention and help, since it is a matter of life and death. She’s completely confident that Mellie’ll get to her destiny and deliver the message to whom it may correspond, but it might not make it in time. Those three--and herself--need more immediate answers. 

She stands up abruptly, some parchments mixing with others from different piles, but today she doesn’t give a damn about it, it’ll be easy to fix. She reaches for the phone, lays it on the table and calls the Ministry, for all she cares, ready to wake up the Minister himself if it’s necessary. Of course, she only gets put through switchboard--she hopes for the life of the young girl that she’s awake and efficient. 

“Ministry of Magic, how can I be of assistance tonight?” answers a vibrant, cheerful woman. 

“I need to speak with Albus Dumbledore,” demands McGonagall. 

At that, the young girl’s formality’s long forgotten--she’d feared so. This woman’ll be no good for her tonight. 

“I’m sorry?” she stutters. 

Minerva takes a deep breath and very slowly repeats her order, for the last time--she won’t be wasting any more time tonight. And though the woman seems to understand her this time around, she can’t offer an immediate solution. Minerva knows that when calling the Ministry looking for someone in particular, the girl on the switchboard would ask if she knows the Department where said Minister works, before looking it up for herself shouldn’t she know it. But they both know Albus doesn’t--nor will he ever--work at the Ministry, so such a demand, so late, must have gotten her confused. The poor child. Minerva’d almost feel pity for her, weren’t she scared for the life of three underage wizards. 

“I’m sorry, ma’am, you do realize you called the Ministry of Magic?”

“Yes, of course, I’m not senile just yet. As a matter of fact, I’m Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress from Hogwarts School, which is why I know for a fact that Albus Dumbledore’s currently at the Ministry. So I demand you put me through so I can speak to him.” 

“I--I wouldn’t know--”

“I urge you to find him in the next ten minutes and send him back to School or else I’ll make sure you are nor fitted for a job at a public nursery school.”

“Ma’am--” she shrieks, horrified. 

“Don’t worry, your job isn’t at stake,” promises Minerva, her cold tone not as reassuring as her words aimed to be, “only the lives of three students of mine. Before you ask, no, this is not a joke, ma’am. So please, find Dumbledore. I’ll call in ten minutes and you better hope I hear very good news.’’

She hangs up the phone before the woman can put in any other word, to get her working immediately--if it’s for three youngsters, the World should stop spinning. 

The adrenaline slowly wearing off for now, she takes a long, deep breath and rests her head on her hands, trying to calm down. Or take a second to ponder her options. It’s fair to assume those three have reached the third-floor corridor before Prof. Flitwick got there. And if the woman on the switchboard isn’t able to contact with Dumbledore, the most sensible, or at least, reasonable option, would be to follow Mr. Potter, Ms. Granger and Mr. Weasley down the trapdoor and try to save them from themselves. Even if someone is trying to steal the Sorcerer’s Stone, the chances that both three students and the thief would chose the same night to enter the passageway is negligible; and the Staff’s priority will be keeping them safe, not looking for a criminal. Albus can deal with that later on, by moving the Stone to some other location. Oh, it was a bad idea alright--some told him from the start. And now three students have brought upon themselves to protect said Stone, without considering the amount of protections that guard it. There’s no way they can get to it, luckily. And many thieves would stumble upon a lot of trouble to fetch it as well. If she’d only listened to them a bit earlier--

She’s not able anymore to compose herself and keep a cool, calm façade now that she’s forced to confess she’s failed three of her lions. She’s always thought she were a competent teacher, Head of House, Deputy Headmistress, leader and, above all, a model to all her lions. This failure, right there, proves her wrong in so many levels that it’s just shameful. If she’d known twenty years ago, she might have reconsidered her acceptance of the job. Besides their incredibly successful attempt at becoming Animagi, not once did the so-called Marauders, or the Weasley twins for that matter, try to perform something as dangerous as this--which goes beyond any kind of practical joke or aiming at being at the receiving end of the school recognition or glory. 

Three eleven-year-old think that, because the Sorcerer’s Stone might be, emphasis on the hypothetical case, in any kind of threat, they’re forced to keep it safe. Without thinking that’s not a job for them, but the Ministry or at least, the school Staff. Without considering the Stone is already protected--a very few number of people could get past all the wards. In the end, that’s the only thing that can calm her nerves, a little bit; there’s no way those three can get to the Stone, whether to protect it or seize whoever might be trying to steal it. But Merlin knows if they don’t make it because they end up dead. 

By the corner of her eye she sees another light in the chambers. It instantly catches her eye, because it’s blueish, contrary to the candles she’s lit on her way in. Raising her head, she recognizes Prof. Flitwick’s magnificent eagle patronus. 

She stands at once to hear his message, but it isn’t reassuring at all. In fact, it only increases the anxiety Minerva’s feeling, since it confirms her that someone’s entered the passageway to the Stone. That someone--being Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger--are headed for their most immediate and certain death if they don’t stop them in time. And if she cannot save them, she’ll resign as Head of Gryffindor’s House and Deputy Headmistress; though that’s the least of her worries, for now. 

She doesn’t send a Patronus back; all she could say is for Mr. Filch and Prof. Flitwick to wait for further instructions, which they’ll do either way even if she orders them or doesn’t, so Minerva prefers not to waste time conjuring a Patronus altogether. Instead, grabs the phone and calls back the Ministry, even if it’s been less than ten minutes. 

The poor woman on the switchboard, however, answers way too quickly. And the apology she greets her with isn’t what she was expecting to hear--actually, it’s the worse sentence the woman could ever have uttered to her at this point in the evening. 

“I’m sorry, ma’am--” 

Fortunately for them both, the chimney’s office lights up all of a sudden with a green fire. Smoke and green flames roar high as Albus Dumbledore steps into the office with clumsy step, a deep wrinkle between his eyebrows. Without saying goodbye, or promising the poor switchboard woman that she’ll still have a job next week, Minerva hangs up the phone and stands up at once. 

“ _Albus,_ ” she whines. 

“Minerva,” he whispers, his anxiety not diminishing for a second after the Deputy Headmistress’ howl and her uneasy disposition, a hand to her chest, another one grabbing him by the arm. 

“Thank Merlin you’re here, Albus.” 

“I feared something terrible was happening--and was proven right upon receiving your owl. What’s going on?”

“I swear to the Magic World, you and your idea of keeping the Stone hidden within Hogwarts grounds.” 

“Has someone attempted to steal--?” 

“No, it’s much, _much_ worse, Albus,” she replies. Now that they both have caught their breath, she grabs him by the arm and pushes out of the office. He follows her jogging pace, maybe a bit too anxious to think about putting down the wards and Apparating before the third-floor corridor. “It’s Miss Granger, Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley.” 

“How can they be related in any way to the Stone? I don’t--” he demands, his panting barely noticeable. 

“Right now I can think of many ways,” she scowls, “but the truth is worse than my worst nightmares,” she squeals, not being able to compose herself anymore now that she’s forced to confess she’s failed three of her lions. “They’ve put themselves to defend the Stone, Albus. They might not even make it.” 

“Let’s not be that pessimistic just yet, Minerva,” recommends the Headmaster, almost begging. “Those three might surprise us just yet--can’t say they haven’t done so in the past.” 

Minerva tries to listen and be optimistic, trust in her lions. But it turns out to be quite complicated to succeed. To think only of the Devil’s Snare. . . It might have killed the three of them, if only they can’t think soon enough of Pomona’s lessons, or aren’t able to light up a fire in time. They’re first-years, for Merlin’s sake!


	38. Chapter 38

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cedric Diggory, in HP 2nd year, being a completely adorable cinnamon roll tries to refute the gossiping on Harry Potter being the Heir of Slytherin and the responsible for the petrifications.

It’s a Hogwarts fact. In spite of Madame Pince’s wishes and threats, the library isn’t usually the quiet place for studying and working that it should be. Hogwarts proves to be like any other school, muggle or otherwise: full with living human beings, curious people; chatty people. And though that problem could easily be fixed, if someone actually gave a damn about the pupils studies, the rule about wands use inside the library persists year after year. 

Despite the fact that Silencing Charms would solve many of the usual quarrels, people find it somewhat difficult studying at the library--still, during the coldest months of the year, it’s one of the only places one can go, when their own Common Room happens to be full to the brim. One can commonly find the group assignment that speaks for everyone to hear--and copy--for one. Or those who simply think of the library as this chill-out are where they can relax and chat with their friends. 

The troubles increased at the beginning of last year, ever since Mr. Harry Potter came to Hogwarts, when rumors and whispers have been a constant in the library, any time of the day, throughout the whole academic year, making it sometimes impossible for some teenagers to get some homework done or study--when the topic on everyone’s lips proves to be foolhardy. 

Last year, however, all those rumors and whispers about Mr. Harry Potter were uttered in awe; he was to assist Hogwarts, he was sorted into Gryffindor like his parents, he was chosen as a Quidditch Seeker in his first-year, the youngest Seeker in a century, confronted Professor Quirrell and left the school without Defense Against the Dark Arts Teacher--again. Today, it’s more of a frightened feeling--probably why the poor lad barely leaves his Common room these days except for assisting his classes. Today he hasn’t been seen for breakfast or lunch, though luckily, he hasn’t started ditching classes altogether. 

“I advocate for someone keeping an eye on him day in and day out.”

“Thought you were scared to cross his path.”

“It’s more of an I-don’t-want-to-look-him-in-the-eye and I-don’t-want-any-of-my-friends-petrified kind of thing. There always are nasty jobs, but someone’s got to do them, or the world wouldn’t spin.”

The whole argument and situation is so utterly stupid that Cedric feels compelled to meddle in. All in all, there’s no point in attempting to write the assignment on werewolves and his travels around the world that Lockhart’d designated; as the rest of his essays, it’s a waste of time and a useless work. They’ve expressed their concerns about this year’s DADA teacher to the Deputy Headmistress and Staff, but they all made up some kind of excuse. And now, with these assaults and petrifications going on, it’s not the most important issue at Hogwarts. Even if there’s no assurance they can keep up with the OWLs standards. 

He drops his quill and keeps his eyes and mouth shut for some seconds--but can’t hold on for too long as he the conversation going on at the end of the table won’t just magically stop. He’s considered doing it, but prefers using words--for now. 

“All of that is complete gibberish, you know,” he scowls. 

He’s rudely interjected, he’s aware, the five third-year Slytherin students--Marchbanks, Jugson, Grunnion, Lynch and Polkyss, if he’s not mistaken--conversation, but doesn’t give a damn about it, since they were the impolite ones in the first place, almost shouting in the middle of the library. They all quit talking--a blessing--and slowly, bewildered, look up at Cedric, at the same time than Agatha, Hannah and Malkin, in front of the boy, who silently, with their eyes, beg Cedric not to engage this argument again. At their Common Room they’ve discussed this whole thing with Justin Fletchley at great length after the snake incident; they all are as fed up as Cedric himself with this topic. And yet he couldn’t stop himself. 

“Excuse you?” demand the five Slythrin students, outraged. 

Cedric knows he should apologize and move on with his studies and homework--it’d be the best for everyone in the table. But he simply can’t and he sighs deeply before answering, to his friend’s dismay, turning his body towards the Slytherin students. 

“Thinking that Harry Potter’s the perpetrator. I have never heard anything more stupid--and I’ve assisted every DADA class this year.”

“Who is doing it, then?”

“I wish I knew,” he sighs, sinking into his chair, giving up altogether on doing any homework. “I wish I had some evidence to make you shut up. Or the whole school. The poor man could use some slack.” 

“We’re not hurting anyone,” replies Grunnion. 

Cedric raises an eyebrow at that--and if Hannah, Malkin and Agatha don’t try to stop him from anwering back this time, is because they too understand the stupidity in that last statement. 

“The boy hasn’t left the Common Room all day long; d’you really think it’s because he’s sick?” he demands, though answers his own question before any of the Slytherin group tries to make up any petty excuses. “No, because he’s trying to avoid the rumors, or being hexed at, out of fear.” 

“Then, you do think he could be--”

They’re just trying to twist his own words, Cedric knows, and that’s what makes it all the more infuriating, and the reason why he shouldn’t have interfered in the first place--there’s no way they can call it quits now. 

“I categorically _know_ he’s not the one petrifying students.” 

“How?” Jugson presses. 

Cedric throws his head backwards, fighting the roar of hysterical laughter raising at the back of his throat. 

“Don’t tell me you suspect me now,” he begs. “Swear to God, I’ve no idea how to petrify any of you, though right now it’d come in handy.” 

His attempt at joking isn’t considered funny by either his Hufflepuff friends or the Slytherin group, not that he’d expected an incredible roar of laughter, and so he just drops his head, sighing again. 

“And Harry has no clue about it either. You’ve all gone absolutely mad if you think he’s the author.” 

“Come on,” begs Polkyss, “you can’t deny you aren’t a little bit frightened.” 

“Frightened of not being able to defend myself and ending up petrified?, ‘course I am,” promises Cedric, as that’s the main fear throughout the school. “Frightened of not passing my OWLs this year because of an incompetent teacher and because no-one allows me five minutes to study? More than anything. But afraid of Harry Potter? Dear Lord, no. When I was his age I could cast the Engorgement Charm, at least--he couldn’t do it in his dreams. Please, be real.” 

“But you have to at least acknowledge that even You-Know-Who was a kid too--wasn’t the Darkest Wizard of all times since his birth.” 

“Presumably,” concedes Agatha in a deep sigh, some silent seconds later, when it was painfully obvious Cedric wasn’t planning on glorifying Marchbank’s statement with an answer. “Okay, you’ve got a point.” 

“Maybe he does. But not even _that_ happened overnight, either,” says Cedric, resting a finger on the table. “You-Know-Who didn’t go from here, being a regular student, from here,” he moves a finger a yard to his left, without raising it from the table, “the Darkest Wizard of all times, in just a couple of months.” 

“But like you said, no-one’s got any proof to blame or absolve anyone,” interjects Lynch, raising a finger. Jugson resumes his line of thinking: 

“So, Harry Potter remains a potential suspect--” 

“Please,” scowls Cedric, banging the table with his fist, “you’re talking about a 12-year-old, get your heads out of you know where.”

Polkyss scoffs, not at all intimidated by Cedric’s outburst, not that he was aiming for that. 

“Let me remind you, that evil wizard you mentioned earlier, the Darkest Wizard of all times, happened to be defeated by--oh, my, Mr. Harry Potter himself, when he was just a baby.”

“Oh, come on! Last year you looked up to him because of that and now you hate and fear him for the same reason?”

“Hey, it’s legit, alright?”

“It’s been eleven years--if he were that skilled and powerful back then, who knows what he could be able to perform now that he’s being trained.” 

“Trained?” repeats an astonished Hannah, hiding an incredulous chuckle. “Trained for _what_ , you suppose?” 

“Listen, were you at the duel class?”

Again this forsaken incident, scowls Cedric mentally, sharing a tired, weary look with Malkin, Hannah and Agatha; they cannot believe either the whole school’s basing a rumor and grave suspicions on that peculiarity. Cedric breathes in deeply before answering, trying to cool it. 

“No, I wasn’t, but I heard what happened, and still think--”

He’s harshly and eagerly interjected by Marchbanks, who can’t see Cedric’s trying to keep peace amongst all of them. 

“Who else but a heir of Slytherin can speak parsletongue nowadays?”

“You don’t know the answer to that,” replies Cedric, raising his voice as well, as he points at Marchbanks accusingly. “Have you asked every wizard in the country? And still that wouldn’t be enough--they might lie to you, knowing how’d you react!!” 

No-one gets a chance to answer this time, as someone else gets into the argument: Violet Clagg, 6th-year Ravenclaw, steps into no-man’s territory, in the free space between the Hufflepuff group and the Slytherin one, dropping a heavy book on the table to snap them out of the argument. Once she’s gained everyone’s attention, she crosses her arms over the book and turns towards Cedric, a flashing grin on her lips. 

“Hey, no need to take it out on innocent boys, don’t you think?” she asks, her tone that close to joking, entering the realm of sarcasm. “Even if you’re going to fail that assignment you clearly haven’t put your heart into, that’s a bit harsh. And unmannerly.” 

That’s the straw that breaks the camel’s back--the last comment makes Agatha, Malkin and Hannah join the argument, by low scoffs and scowling. 

“Here we go again,” Agatha falls into despair. 

Even when Harry Potter came to Hogwarts, his fame and the rumors were nothing compared to the eternal discussion and rivalry over the principal traits of each House--even now, what with the poor lad being considered a mass-murderer, the House classic competition prevails. Specially when discussing the boy’s prone to belonging to Slytherin. 

“So, tell me, are all Ravenclaws A-students?” demands Malkin. 

“Most of us, yeah, actually,” replies Violet, waving her hand to dismiss the interjection and the off-topic allegation. “Will you stop beating 12-year-olds, dear?” 

“They can stand up for themselves,” Cedric promises under his breath. 

“We were just speaking our minds,” replies Polkyss, at the other end of the table. 

“The most innocent and noble of tasks,” Marchbanks points out, a finger raised, thinking that’ll put Violet on their side of the argument. 

“And saying this whole school’s thoughts, so you know,” adds Grunnion. A statement that refuses any previous efforts to prove their point, even to Violet, who’s the one to refute it: 

“You think that because the majority of students think like you, you’re right? That’s a naïve way of seeing things,” she scoffs. 

Despite her harsh words and the Slytherin’s more than obvious right to defend themselves and rephrase their previous statement, she raises a single finger to put a stop to them--she’s not yet finished proving her point against them. 

“Hundreds of years ago, people thought the Earth was flat--were they right?” she asks, not bothering to wait for an answer. “No, they weren’t, hence we can rule out that idiotic thought,” she sums up, before turning towards Cedric again, almost without a moment to take a breath. “They’re right on one thing, though.”

“Only one?” they demand, a bit frustrated. They try to defend their position, but Violet dimisses it all easily and proceeds talking as if she’d heard nothing. 

“Harry Potter did defeat He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named when he was barely a baby.”

“Yes,” agrees Cedric, nodding his head slowly, “and I’m sure there’re a hundred theories that can explain it.”

“Try a thousand, more likely,” scoffs Violet. 

As she pats the book she’s brought with her, Cedrick cocks his head, attracted by the gesture. The book has nothing to do with any homework assignment; it’s actually pretty impressive that she’s got under her arm a guide to the survival of the Avada Kedavra Curse that should most certainly belong to the Restricted Area. Out of curiosity, he looks around for Madame Pince--but given Violet’s collectedness, it’d be in fact pretty difficult to pinpoint her taking, or consulting, a prohibited book. Trust a Ravenclaw to do something illegal in broad daylight. While she’s at it, he’s bound to beg her to cast a Silencing Charm all around the library--they could do with a little less chatter. 

He raises his eyebrows and Violet flashes a gigantic grin, daring him to out her secret. 

“And I’m sure all of those theories mythologize a poor child into somewhat of a genius, or a monster, whatever fits the day’s catastrophe,” he says instead, his head tilted. 

“Not every one last of them,” concedes Violet, sitting down besides Cedric. 

He caresses his chin as he rests his other arm over Violet’s char. “Besides some complete nonsense theories,” he remarks, raising his eyebrows at her. 

“I’ll grant you that. But one has got to be true, hasn’t it?”

“Or maybe there’s a thousandth theory and that last one, not contemplated here, is the correct one. Plus, let me back up,” he begs before Violet interjects him again, “you’re saying that because one nutjob thinks Harry Potter’s somewhat of a freak and could defeat Him, he’s also, by correlation, the heir of Slytherin and the author of these petrifications?”

“ _Right._ Because that makes sense. Go back to your conspiracy theories about one of our peermates and let us study, _please,_ ” begs Agatha, her not trying to be polite anymore either--it’s long past that point. 

“I’m only saying--some advocate that Harry Potter was born with that lightning scar on his forehead, not that it was a result of the spell. The Avada Kedavra Curse doesn’t leave any marks on the corpse, you know.”

“The dead body,” Cedric points out, stressing the same words Violet’s just used. “Maybe scholars thought that because no-one had survived the Curse before him and the studies weren’t conclusive.”

“Or maybe--”

“Let me stop you right there--what’s your theory? That being born with that scar gave him powers? Unknown to any child, _ever_ , in the history of Magic?”

“Cool--Like Superman?”

“All--” 

For the first time, Violet’s left speechless, as she registers Lynch’s sentence. No-one in the table could tell what the girl meant by that and with such a serendipitous word, she’s achieved a moment of piece, more effectively than anything else that’s been said on the table over the past half hour, as all Ravenclaws, all Hufflepuffs and the one Ravenclaw girl turn towards her. She blushes and drops her head, but there’s no point at all; even if it’s out of curiosity, Violet forces the truth out of her. 

They should have known it was muggle-related, but it is never too late to learn a bit more about the other world they live in and sometimes--most of the time--forget about. Marchbanks even asks her to lend him some of those ‘comic books’, even if the pictures don’t move at all, as he looks truly interested in the story she’s told. Or maybe it’s just a way of soothing her down; Lynch smiles again and raises her head to face everyone, her cheeks red. 

But they all can also agree it was just an intermission; a nice one, but a halt to their discussion after all. It’s Cedric the one who resumes the argument, addressing Violet again before she remembers what she was going to say and absorbs the next minutes of speech. 

“So, the hypothesis is that thanks to that scar, he could be the most skilled wizard in the World? Come on, have you actually met him? He fails Potions, he’s clueless at Herbology and Transfiguration, he scrapes by the rest of subjects.”

“Except DADA,” remarks Polkyss. 

“Which doesn’t make him a stellar wizard, does it?” insists Cedric. 

“Look, the thing is--”

“You’re all nut-jobs, that’s the bottom line,” Cedric sums up, raising his voice a bit too much. “It’s ludicrous, for Merlin’s beard!”

He stands up and starts collecting his books, parchments and quill, willing to leave the library this second, to his friend’s dismay, but it’s Violet in the last place who convinces him to stay, harshly grabbing him by the arm and forcing him to sit down again. 

“No need to get mad when someone disagrees with you,” she says. 

“I’m not mad because my way of thinking isn’t shared by everyone,” Cedric explodes, “but because the most popular idea running around the school is nonsense. Which isn’t a novelty, I know, but it does get kind of irritating after a couple of years.” 

“Nonsense, to _you_ ,” replies Violet, “not to everyone.” 

“Come on. You say you’re smart even for a Ravenclaw and still you refuse to think rationally--” 

“I do what Ravenclaws do: before making a decision and judgment I check the evidence--” 

Cedric drops his books, which slam against the table, and raises a finger to make her stop. “Please, enlighten me,” he begs, not as polite as his words may sound, “ _What evidence, exactly?_ ” 

“Harry Potter is a powerful and skilled wizard--can’t deny me that,” says Violet. 

“His magic has been latent for more than eleven years, so no-one, not even himself, can predict how powerful he really is and the potential he’s got,” resumes Marchbanks. 

“I’m sure Dumbledore could,” replies Cedric. “If he felt Harry was that dangerous, he’d throw him out, or keep him under surveillance. He hasn’t done either.” 

“Do you remember that back when there were known Death Eaters roaming freely around this school, during the Wizard War, our dear Headmaster didn’t take any action against them?” interjects Violet. “And they were openly, publicly, unashamedly, attacking muggle-borns inside these walls. Why would react any differently now with Harry Potter? Kicking him out would be even worse than expelling Death Eaters back when they were in a War.” 

“And that right there’s an argument on Potter’s behalf,” says Cedric. “If he’d done any of those petrifications, the writings on the walls with blood and everything else, they’d certainly expel him, wouldn’t they?” 

“If they had any proof, they’d be forced to, of course,” concedes Hannah. 

“The problem is, the Headmaster doesn’t have any more clues than you or me,” interjects Jugson. 

“Innocent until proven guilty, I’d say. And this School must work this way as well,” scowls Cedric. 

It’s a fair point and legal protection--they should grant him at least that, even if it’s part of the Muggle procedure legal system. But exactly for that reason, it seems that such a concession isn’t granted to Harry Potter. He chuckles as he tries, once more, grabbing all his books and make a run for the exit. But the rest of the inter-house group doesn’t want to drop the subject as much as he yearns it. 

“A question--do we actually know Potter’s lineage?” asks Grunnion, looking up at Violet. 

“There’s a job for you,” says Cedric, pointing a finger at the girl, “look it up. Can’t be that hard, the Potter’s a very known family, even before Harry managed to destroy You-Know-Who. And if you find out, do tell me, please, I’d be delighted to hear all about it--and I’m sure Potter would like to know as well.

“Don’t you think that Harry Potter’s lineage would have been checked out by historians, researchers and scholars way back to when he defeated You-Know-Who?” he demands, squirting his eyes. 

“If that didn’t come to light, it’s because they found nothing,” resumes Agatha, saying exactly what he was hoping someone would say next. 

“Maybe,” grants Violet, cocking her head to them. But still she doesn’t put her foot down nor gives up, not for her life. “Or _maybe_ we were too young, or not even alive back then, to remember any of it.” 

Cedric just scoffs at her incredulity. “Come on. Violet. Please. Something as big as Harry James Potter, the Defeater of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, being related by blood to Salazar Slytherin, one of Hogwarts Founders, would be remembered, I promise you. It’d be written on every history book we’ve read ever since coming to this School, would have been remarked in every newspapers article that even mentioned Potter.” 

“Okay, Cedric, knock it off,” begs Violet, rolling her eyes. 

Cedric doesn’t get the chance to answer back; same way as Violet isn’t forced to reply exclaiming why on Earth should she waste her time on a task like that one; the Slytherin group are finally forced to shut up and quit coming up with the most ridiculous of arguments; and the Hufflepuff gang can also stop trying to provide some defense for Cedric’s more than exaggerated reactions. Overall, the discussion is cut short by the librarian, Madame Pince, who cuts them short with a sharp and severe yell. 

“There’s too much chatter coming from this table!!” 

The ten members of the groups slowly forget all they were about to say as they realize they were initially at the library and are surrounded by at least two dozen other students, looking at them all both annoyed and also intrigued by the direction their debate was taking. But they’re spared to resume it. 

“Keeping quiet in the library is mandatory!!” yells Madame Pince. 

They all turn to greet her, though she doesn’t extend the same courtesy to them--she’s infuriated with each and everyone of the students, regardless of their House. 

“You are to keep your voices down from now on or else I’ll be taking points from your Houses. Oh, be certain I’m well capable of doing so, Miss Gaertner!” she adds as Violet was about to disagree with the librarian. But whether she was about to protest her idea or not, Violet comes out of it either way. 

“Madame Pince, I was only going to ask--do you have any book about the Potter’s ancestors that we could consult? Out of curiosity, of course.” 

Cedric smiles, behind the librarian’s back. Best way to calm her down and make her forget whatever made her upset in the first place--asking her about some or other book. Except today, apparently; Cedric has never heard her avoid a question. 

“They’re not available at the moment,” says sharply Madame Pince. 

Cedric exchanges an astonished look with his friends, who look as baflled as he is, for some long seconds. Of course, he reckons later, reasoning it all with remarkable ease, even if there are books on Potter’s ancestors, they’d keep them hidden and off the records for the time being. Doesn’t seem like the fittest moment for people to check on the Potter’s past; would cause more trouble if they indeed found that he’s somehow related to Salazar Slytherin, or any other Dark Wizard in history for that matter. 

“And may I ask--what do you think about all of this, Madam?” he demands, daring to try everything or go back home--to the Common Room--with twenty House points less. Today it seems like the honorable thing to do. 

“What I or the rest of the Staff think or believe doesn’t matter,” she replies sharply, piercing him with her stern look, “and certainly isn’t something any of you should be asking us.” 

“Sorry, ma’am,” begs Cedric at once, knowing he’s stepped over a line of some sorts--though he hadn’t expected any different answer coming from her. 

“That’s quite alright, Mr. Diggory, curiosity is a powerful thing,” replies the librarian, “if taken when it’s necessary. Now, I hope this little chat amongst you is over?” she demands, eyeing everyone seated on the table without allowing any possible answer but ‘yes’. 

“Certainly, ma’am,” promises Marchbanks, nodding his head dutifully. 

“I’m not blind just yet, Mr. Thompson. Why are you all still seating at the same table?” 

To Cedric, that’s their unmistakable queue for leaving this place and argument, which couldn’t come at a better time for his nerves, so he stands up at once, picking up his books, parchment and quill. 

“Don’t worry about that, Madame Pince, I was just leaving. No, really, I’m done already, it’s fine,” he promises his friends who insist on him staying with them, even grabbing him by the arm to stress their words. 

“I appreciate your kindness, Mr. Diggory. Maybe others could someday learn something from you,” after Madame Pince stern scolding to Violet and the five Slytherin kids, she turns around, headed for her desk, leaving the area now that the main focus of conflict is abandoning the scene. 

Cedric takes a single minute to gather all of his school supplies, all in a silence he thought would be impossible to achieve just a while ago, as everyone stares at him a bit ashamed--as they should feel. It’s because all this gang that he’s feeling compelled to leave the library. Other reasons, such as that he couldn’t focus on studying for one more second, or that he’s about to vent all his bitterness and rage in an spontaneous combustion, don’t even cross his mind. 

“See you in a bit,” he bids farewell to his House classmates. 

Only then, when he hangs the bag from his shoulder and takes a couple steps away from the table, he realizes their conversation didn’t attract only Madame Pince’s attention and bad temper. In their surrounding area there’re at least two dozen students, standing or seated at the adjacent tables, hiding behind bookcases or not even bothering to pretend they weren’t listening in. Cedric glances over the lot of them; some can’t hold his gaze and drop their head or walk away, but others lock eyes with him, a bit defiantly, which only infuriates him a bit more. That’s the most problematic issue, right here: no-one wants to say it out loud, but at the end of the day everyone’s got their own opinion on the Potter issue and is interested in getting a saying on the matter. Cedric’s sure that, throughout their bickering, many people would have wanted to add some more fuel to it, whether it was on Harry’s defense or not--and Violet, beyond her irritating pain in the ass characteristical manner, was the only one brave enough to prove in and barge in to refute some of the arguments said. 

Knowing Madame Pince won’t forgive him for engaging yet another brawl at the library, he swallows a growl, turns around and heads for the exit, forgetting to say sorry for disturbing anyone in their fake studies. By Merlin, the things one can endure and put up with. To his opinion, Potter should have assisted a magic school away from England to be safe from rumors and harmful opinions that hover Hogwarts. He’d live a much calmer life in another continent. 

Caught up in his thoughts, needing to get physically away from the library or else he’ll combust, he storms away, not caring who or what crosses his path. Some corners over he finally stops, by a window; the setting sun, too weak to really warm his face, catches his eye and, surprisingly, calms him down a bit. He lays his schoolbag on the windowsill and rests there, his head on his hands, the sun casting his figure long shadow against the stone wall behind him.

“Hello,” says a voice girl on his left. 

Surprised, he raises his head; eyebrows frowned, but thankfully notices right from the start that this girl doesn’t want to meddle anymore into everyone’s favorite topic of conversation lately. She’s got such a peaceful and cheerful disposition, a tender smile on her lips, bouncing from on foot to another, so different from the aura one can find these days around the whole School, that Cedric just can’t stay mad at her, think badly about her or question if she’s about to pester him further. He knows she’s not--even if he doesn’t even know her name. 

“I’m Luna Lovegood,” she greets, as if she’d heard his thoughts. 

Cedric groans internally. He does know her, by his friends. Loony Lovegood. Ravenclaw first-year. How can anyone judge her before actually meeting the girl? 

“Hi,” he forces to greet back. “I’m Cedric--” 

“Cedric Diggory, I know,” interjects Luna, shaking his hand. “I was listening back there--” she says, signaling the library with a nod of her head. 

Cedric sighs, raising a hand to make her stop--he understands the rub here. 

“Sorry if we disturbed you in your studies also,” he scowls, running a hand through his hair. 

“On the contrary,” she promises, surprising Cedric for the second time in less than two minutes. “I think that was very nice and brave, what you did.” 

She talks with such tenderness and genuine concern that Cedric just knows she’s not faking it. She actually is defending Harry Potter and publicly standing by his side, when most of the school has turned their backs on the boy and are judging for some things that he could never do. It’s reassuring meeting people as upright as this young girl here. He just wishes there are a lot more people like her and himself around the School that are just afraid to stand by what’s right and an innocent young man. 

“Thanks,” he stutters, a bit surprised he’s being praised for speaking his mind. “It’s nice to know I’m not the only one who thinks so.” 

“Oh, you’re not,” says Luna. Though by her tone she might be a little misled, as if thinking the whole School stands by Harry, she does make it look like many people were; definitely more than Cedric thinks. “But it can be difficult to speak the unconceivable truth when a lie is just so easy to believe, isn’t it?” 

“It is not an _unconceivable_ truth,” scowls Cedric, changing his weight from one foot to another. “Just a lesser believable story, I’ll grant you that, but the myth they’re suggesting is way more implausible.” 

At that, Luna raises an eyebrow and smiles shyly, something that makes the boy stop talking for a second and reflect. Now he was ranting about this whole issue on Potter being the heir of Slytherin-- _all by himself_. He seriously needs to get some help. 

He scratches the back of his neck a bit awkwardly, realizing his mistake. 

“Guess I get carried away,” he whispers. “It just pisses me off, you know?” 

Now Luna chuckles under her breath and once again, too late, Cedric realizes that kind of language is completely inappropriate to use before eleven-year-old kids. By Merlin, he’s nailing it today, isn’t he. 

“Don’t worry, I understand,” chuckles the girl. With a nod of her head she invites him to go for a stroll and he accepts without thinking twice about it--rather than loitering around the library, risking meeting with some Slytherin student again. 

“There are many myths concerning Harry Potter,” says Luna. “I remember my father telling me some people thought he was a werewolf.” 

Cedric bursts out laughing, his head dropping to one side. 

“That’s ridiculous,” he scoffs. “He’s lived in the Muggle World for eleven years, I’d say someone would have noticed. That’s actually worse than thinking he could be the heir of Slytherin and be the author of these petrifications. The poor man has had to hear many crazy theories about himself, but these two must win a prize of some sort.” 

“Undoubtedly,” agrees the girl, “but the thing is, people will keep talking, whether their thoughts are based on stupid theories that came up to someone in the shower, or can be scientifically proved.” 

“You’ve got a point there,” grants Cedric. 

With a warm smile, Luna cocks her head at him. “That’s all I wanted to tell you--thought it could help you coping with all the gossip around here.” 

He sighs deeply, putting his hands deep in his trousers’ pockets. 

“Appreciate the effort, Luna, but if this can’t help Harry, I just don’t see the point of it all.” 

She shrugs, truly disappointed by this. 

“I’m afraid I can’t give you that.” 

“No, it’s not your fault, please; I’m sorry,” begs Cedric. He’s so much distressed and he notices how he screws up at every chance he’s got, that his dismay comes out in a somewhat despaired laughter. 

All of a sudden there is this one thing he knows he must do--upon noticing it’s late enough for the torches around the corridor to light by themselves, enchanted. His face drops, this time not because of anger or despair, as he raises and grabs Luna by the arm, in a gesture he hadn’t thought of beforehand could be considered harassment or out of place from the girl. Luckily, she doesn’t; she just stares at him, surprised by his change of attitude. 

“It’s late,” he scowls. “You shouldn’t be outside after curfew.” 

The girl smiles at his manners and preoccupation that shouldn’t be addressed to her only. 

“You should head for your Common Room as well,” she points out. 

“Let me walk you to yours first,” insists Cedric, dragging her along the corridor even if he’s got no idea where the Ravenclaw Tower is. However, the Staff was clear on some key instructions: no student should be on their own after sunset, for their own protection. It’s a wonder they haven’t met with any teacher or Prefect already who’s sent them straight back to their Common Rooms; and Cedric kicks himself for it too. Hadn’t he been so caught up with this whole ordeal, he’d have sent her back way earlier than this. 

“Thank you,” says the girl, pushing his hand away from her arm, “but I’ll be alright.” 

“Luna, I can’t let you--”

“I appreciate your consideration, but truly, I don’t need a bodyguard,” she promises, hanging her schoolbag from her shoulder. “Hope to see you around.” 

“Likewise,” says he without realizing it, though deep down, knowing he does want to meet her again and talk to her sometime soon, when Potter isn’t the talk of the town, for example--as if that were possible. “Be careful. Ask for help if you encounter any trouble.” 

“I will,” she promises, in a way that he’s certain she will do nothing of that sort. Not because she may be stupid--he’s certain by now all those rumors about the girl are nonsensical--but she might just disregard what others may see as a threat. He maybe should follow her, just to make sure she does get to her Common Room safe and sound--apparently, no-one else will do so for her. 

Despite his best intentions, he doesn’t get to. By the time he stops pondering and steps forward, the girl’s already at the other end of the hall, waving goodbye to him. Of course, he could try to stop her, but he figures that’d be just rude. 

“Bye!” 

Strange as it sounds, if he had any means of keeping an eye on her till she reached her Common Room, he’d make use of it immediately.


	39. Chapter 39

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Late in Harry and Ron's 2nd year at Hogwarts, Ginny vanishes. To most of the students and specially, to her big brother Percy, who was supposed to take care of his little sister, there is little to no hope of seeing her again alive.

Hands shaking terribly, he folds the parchment in four and puts it in the envelope before he makes any stupid attempt at burning the letter or crumple it whole. He then ties it to the owl’s paw--the animal stands restlessly on the windowsill, as nervous as Percy himself, as if he knew the kind of bad news he’s about to deliver and finds himself as eager to fulfill his duties as Percy was while writing down the forsaken words. But he forces the owl out of the window, as he earlier forced himself to write the letter, sending Errol flying away--the news need to be delivered and they need to be delivered by him. 

He watches the pathetic animal follow an erratic and inconsistent path in the air, but for once, Errol keeps flapping his wings unhurt, getting further away from the Castle. Within minutes, he’s already disappeared into the grey sky, despite Percy’s wishes that the animal should finally suffer the ultimate accident and doesn’t make it back to the Burrow. He wishes his mother and father would never read that latter. 

They’ll freak out, to put it in one simple word--if they ever understand the vague message he was able to scribble on the parchment. But, what was he supposed to tell them? “Please, come to Hogwarts, Ginny’s been taken, we don’t know by whom or where to, and besides, there’s a slight chance, to say the least, that she’s already dead”? How could he ever write that down? All his strength was gone after begging them to come to Hogwarts because something horrible has happened to Ginny--and making one last plea for them to forgive him for his mistakes, even if he knows deep down, he’s an unforgiving man, an undeserving sibling, a horrible Prefect. 

The halls and corridors are deserted; he only meets with a couple teachers who don’t say a word to him, not even a recommendation to hurry back to the Common Room. Percy couldn’t say what he hates more, if their pity and commiseration because of Ginny, or the fact that they flatly refuse to scold him, in spite of deserving one hell of an admonition. He’ll gladly accept being told off for live if that gave him his sister back. 

Finally he reaches the Common Room, though it’s a more hellish place than the owlery or the rest of the School. It’s eerily quiet, even before he stepped in, but the moment everyone got a glimpse of him, he gets from each student that same sad, disappointed look, whether they were standing, lying on the floor or sitting at the many places around the Common Room--giving for granted Ginny’s demise already. Can’t really blame them. Even George and Fred feel the same, they’re not up to their usual jokes and pranks--when they could really use them. They’re simply sitting on the couches, Lee Jordan by their side trying uselessly to comfort them, close by to the chimney, though Percy knows if they’re cold it’s not because of the temperature, they’re just scared stiff inside. 

“Um--Percy,” says a third-year boy, Clifford, Percy reckons, standing from his chair. “Do you need to sit down?” 

It’s the first kind gesture he’s received all year from any of his House fellow members; pity it should come in such a tragic moment, only because of Ginny’s situation. Percy eyes longingly the chair the boy’s offering him, but makes no attempt at answering Clifford or accept the offer in any other way. Percy only looks up and gazes the Common Room and everyone present, all students with identical grieving faces. His subconscious works better and faster than his conscience; it takes him ten full seconds after scanning the room to realize who was looking for exactly and didn’t find present. 

Without uttering one word to Clifford, Percy heads for the staircases of the boy’s dormitories, coming to a halt in front of the second-year door. He knocs out of politeness, though didn’t want to waste the time and actually doesn’t wait for an answer. 

The boys inside the bedroom would have appreciated the heads-up, however: Neville, Seamus and Dean, upon seeing him, hurriedly throw the playing cards they were holding under the beds and trunks around the dormitory and stand before the couple butterbeers they’ve sneaked out who knows from where. Should have realized that tonight the Weasley Prefect is in no way up to abide the rules--but he can’t bring himself to apologize for the intrusion either. 

“Good night,” he says, unsure of how to say the words. “Harry or Ron around here?” 

Such a request takes the boys aback, who doubt for some seconds if they’d heard correctly. Percy repeats the question louder this time, but then, they’re baffled by Harry and Ron’s whereabouts. 

“As a matter of fact, no,” says Dean, eyebrows frowned. 

“Haven’t seen them in a while, actually,” adds Neville, still looking around, maybe trying to remember when or where they last saw those two. 

“They’re not in the Common Room?” asks Seamus, a little bit concerned. 

Percy doesn’t bother giving him an answer; he’s passed by the Common Room to get to the dormitories. Seamus himself realizes so in seconds and shuts his mouth tight as not to screw up again. 

“Okay, then. Let me know if you see ‘em.” 

“Will do,” promptly promises Seamus, as if trying to make it up to Percy. 

He turns around slowly, dragging the door with him, when Neville stops him, as nervous and uncomfortable as the Clifford boy downstairs. 

“Percy, if I may. . .We--We’re sorry,” says Neville, struggling with the precise words to express his feelings properly. “We do hope to see Ginny back soon. I’m sure the Staff will be able to find her.” 

Percy steps into the bedroom again, looking down on the three kids. He knows their concern and wishes are genuine, only, it doesn’t mean much to him right about now. What Neville’s said it’s just the understatement of the year--filled with hopeless sorrow. 

“Yeah. Me too,” it’s the only answer he can manage to give to the boy. “Curfew’s in fifteen minutes.” 

Then Percy leaves for good, stepping outside the staircase, but before he closes the door, the conversation inside resumes and he freezes, for some reason. Maybe it’s dazzlement that someone should be able to go on with their life when he’s stuck in this pit of misery and despair. 

“We’re supposedly in lockdown,” Neville whispers, which isn’t a reminder to any of the students present, as Percy hears they pick up they cards and their game. “Where the hell might they be?” 

“Merlin knows,” scowls Dean. “All I hope is they don’t lose any more House Points. They’ve done enough this year.” 

“Wow, how considerate of you, man,” reprimands Seamus. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“I mean--what if they’re in danger too?” 

“If they’re so reckless as to try to find Ginny on their own, getting hurt will serve them right.” 

“And what would you say if they get killed?” 

Dean doesn’t have an answer for that--instead, he commands, snappy, to resume their game where they’d left it. But the question remains with Percy and he takes it downstairs to the Common Room. 

He couldn’t say who lend him the place, but somehow he finds himself sitting beside his twin brothers. The three of them are too out of it to say a word to each other--George and Fred haven’t bat an eye upon Percy’s arrival. They’re sunk into their own thoughts and sorrow. They might lose Ginny. They might have lost her already. 

Percy’s personally descending fifty paths of Hell on his own anguish and guilt. It was Ginny’s first year, he was supposed to take care of her, she was supposed to have as a normal academic experience as the next one. And now she’s been taken and more than likely, killed off. Nothing like this ever happened when Bill and Charlie were at School and were made Prefects themselves. 

That’s it--tomorrow morning, whatever happens tonight, he’ll be returning to Professor McGonagall the Prefects badge. If he could do nothing to protect Ginny and prevent her being taken, he doesn’t deserve it a minute longer. He doesn’t really deserve any of the things that happen to him: Fred and George’s curse, now Ginny, Ron and Harry... He tries his best and still horrible things keep taking place beyond his ability to do anything about it. 

Ron and Harry, he remembers all of a sudden. He checks the Common Room once more, realizing for the second time they’re not here. They’re not in the Gryffindor Tower after curfew. Of course they’re up to something, more than likely, looking for Ginny. 

He doesn’t know if he’ll either kiss or beat Harry up when he meets him again. The punishing idea wins over eventually the longer he ponders about it--they’re only a couple of 12-years-old, what are they planning on achieving? Without Hermione? They’re doomed, completely, irretrievably, probably as much as Ginny herself. Harry’s just managed to put two of his siblings in harm’s way the same night. Who does that? 

Do they really think they can find the Chamber of Secrets, when no-one’s managed to do so in the centuries of existence of this School, or throughout the more exhaustive searches performed throughout this year? That they’re able to beat whatever monster’s lurking down there, beat Salazar’s heir, whoever he is, and all of that in time to save--? They’re just going to get themselves killed trying. 

As he stays motionless on the couch, barely feeling the heat from the fireplace or noticing the students filing out to the dormitories one after the other, time passes by horribly slow and yet horribly fast. Every passing minute there’s a bigger chance Ginny--plus Ron and Harry--are dead and Molly and Arthur on their way to Hogwarts School, to hear the worse news parents could ever receive. It’s a smart move, after all, not saying a word to George or Fred about Ron’s whereabouts and intentions. It’s bad enough they’re just sitting around, waiting for the unavoidable, waiting for their hearts to be shattered into million pieces, without nothing to do, expecting someone--anyone--to come and give them good news, though they’re aware that might now happen. Quite the opposite, really. It’s going to be one hellish night--or lifetime, if things turn out as he fears. 

Percy can’t even put his faith and prayers on Harry’s shoulders. He’s not a superhero or a super wizard, regardless of what he may have done when he was barely a baby, regardless of the stupid rumors going around the School all year long. He’s not the heir of Slytherin. He’s not a prodigy wizard. He’s not the solution to every problem. He’s just a twelve-year-old wizard who’s set himself to face death way earlier than he should have, alongside Ron and Ginny. What kind of child does that? 

Lee Jordan’s presence helps, even if the man’s not supposed to be comforting him of all people--but Percy’s classmates vanish to their dormitories too. Lee Jordan, however, assuming the role of mother, father and grandmother that of George and Fred, takes care of Percy as well. Throughout the night he can tell Lee’s brought them couple blankets to keep them warm, has kept the fire going, has brought them from the kitchens many hot cups of tea, even if they don’t drink more than a couple sips each. He just makes sure that they don’t die out of their vegetative states, forcing himself to stay awake even if he shouldn’t be up. 

First real sign of change all night is the low rumble of the Common Room’s portrait opening up to allow access to somebody. At once, Percy’s head shoots right up towards the entrance, waiting to see who’s coming in--George and Fred take a little while longer and only because Jordan motions them for it. The person who enters is none but than Madame Pomfrey. All four students, the only ones left in the Common Room, they realize now, stand at once, trying to read the nurse’s face to know if it’s good news or bad news. 

They really can’t tell. 

“Wha--?” tries to demand Percy, but his throat is hoarse and his mind can’t master the words. 

“You have to come with me,” urges the nurse, as busy-like as usual, motioning for the Weasley brothers to gather around, which they do immediately. “I’m sorry, Mr. Jordan, I was instructed to bring family only.” 

“That’s alright, Madame Pomfrey, I understand,” replies the boy, as the Weasleys make a circle around Madame Pomfrey, holding each other’s hands, “only, could you tell us--” 

She couldn’t give him a straight-forward answer, as she Disapparates all of a sudden from the Common Room, taking the twins and Percy with her and leaving Jordan mid-sentence and bewildered. He knows, and not only because one Miss Granger has been saying so over and over for the past two years, that one can’t usually Apparate or Disapparate within Hogwarts grounds. The fact that the Headmaster should put down the wards on this instance so the Weasley family could meet faster than usual. . . He can’t tell if that implies good news or bad news. And that leaves him empty, as desperate as the Weasley siblings were minutes ago, as he finds himself a seat on the couch George and Fred were sitting all night long, waiting for an answer. 

Thankfully for the Weasley siblings and their untimely heart condition, within thirty seconds after Madame Pomfrey’s intrusion at the Common Room they learn their sister is safe and sound. They Apparate at their Head of House’s chambers, where their parents, Prof. Minnie, the Headmaster, Prof. Lockhart, Ron, Harry and, most importantly, Ginny are holding a difficult conversation filled with whimpers, tears and a lot of confusion. 

George, Fred and Teddy don’t care about decorum or proper behavior in front of their Head of House, Headmaster and parents: as soon as they see Ginny they run to her side and hug her tightly, dropping to the floor around her chair. She’s still weeping but welcomes their affectionate gestures and is even in the mood for laughing at George and Fred stupids and completely out of context jokes. But they don’t give a damn--Ginny’s here, safe and sound, a bit shaken. Even Ron and Harry look mostly unhurt, though the blood dripping from Harry’s robes almost makes Percy puke and prefers not to question about it. They’ve even brought food and many bottles of water to the chambers, though most of it looks untouched for the time being. 

After having his turn hugging Ginny and even Ron, for a shorter amount of time, Percy steps backwards and exchanges one look with his parents, filled with remorse and guilt. He knows what they’ll say to him when they’re all alone, when Ginny cannot hear them. He’s always promised to keep an eye out for his young sister and promised nothing would ever come to her--so if someone’s about to get told off or even forcefully taken away from Hogwarts, it won’t be Harry or Ron for breaking a dozen School rules, or Ginny for what she did under the influence or You-Know-Who. It’s going to be him. And he can accept it, anything his parents and Head of House deem fit, now that he knows for certain Ginny’s no longer in danger.


	40. Chapter 40

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remus John Lupin, DADA professor at Hogwarts School in third year, wakes up after that last, fateful full moon of term with a horrible premonition and feeling worse than any transformation he's had all school year.

He knows as soon as he opens his eyes that this has been one of the worse full moons he remembers. Even if he’s spent by himself the last one hundred and fifty transformations, some of them the most painful he’s ever suffered, he knows right away this one’s on the top three of the list. He doesn’t dare to move for a few minutes, afraid of seriously evaluating his injuries and finding out how many broken bones he has got. 

In the end he can regain enough strength to move, kneel and finally sit down, leaning against a tree to catch his breath. His ribs hurt like hell--one or two are broken for sure--and he’s got bleeding cuts all over his body, one particularly bad in the leg, though by the looks and position of it, it seems like the wolf bit himself. 

He’s too tired and in pain for his brain to function normally. He doesn’t try to remember what exactly happened last night. He usually doesn’t; instead, he tries to lock every painful, blurry, confusing bits of memory of the transformation. The only thing that briefly crosses his mind is how come he’s in the Forbidden Forest, outside of the Shrieking Shack. Ever since he’s started teaching at Hogwarts and goes there every full moon, he’s never woken up outside, nor in the Forbidden Forest or, worse, in the castle grounds. He takes the same precautions every time. He guesses the walls are too shabby at this point to endure the wolf’s full rage. 

He looks around, trying to discern his surroundings. He’s been in the Forbidden Forest too many times with the Marauders to be scared of any of the creatures who live in here--after all, he’s the most terrifying creature he could think of, and he’s just transformed back, so no animal would dare to come near him. On the other hand, sadly, that means he’s on his own. If he’d been human, some deer or any other animal might have taken pity of him, or at least would have come closer out of curiosity. 

Alone, wandless, and naked, he remembers. It seems he’ll have to get back to the Shrieking Shack by his own feet, however painful that might be, before getting medical attention by Madame Pomfrey. Well, once again, he’s been through worse, he sighs and he carefully and methodically stands up. As he puts weight on his right foot he lets out a low groan, pretty sure he’s twisted it. Hell of a night he’s got, and hell of a funny trip he’ll have back to the Shrieking Shack. 

Without stepping away from the tree for a full minute, he looks around, searching. Five feet away there’s a branch he can use as a temporary crutch. It’s not exactly easy to get it without leaving the tree’s support, but when he does and tests the height, which proves to be approximately right, the trip back will be easier. 

He sniffs around. The first few hours right after the transformation he keeps some of the wolf’s traits and, today, maybe for the first and last time in his life, it will be an advantage. At least that way he’ll go straight to the Shrieking Shack by the shortest way and won’t wander around or in the opposite direction. He truly doesn’t have the enough amount of strength to wander around at this moment. 

He walks with insecure step through the woods, at least assured of the unmarked road he’s taking. Half an hour later he’s close enough to the Shrieking Shack to know his surroundings and he can calm down a bit more. But all the same, he starts to perceive various smells that shouldn’t be there. The wolf, Madame Pomfrey and himself; the Shrieking Shack hasn’t smelled like anything or anyone else in years. He believes he recognizes the scents, but he can’t quite place them exactly. And that scares him. The last time people were in the Shrieking Shack, besides the Marauders, the excursion almost didn’t end well. 

He desperately tries to remember what happened last night, but forcing one’s mind to remember something in the midst of a painful and blurry cloud isn’t an experience one would willingly take. He gives up merely after a few seconds, seeing that fainting now isn’t an option. 

He tenses even more as he sees, at the entrance of the Shrieking Shack, not only Madame Pomfrey, but also Dumbledore. Not even once, except from that very first full moon in September of 1971, during his seven years and consequent transformations at Hogwarts, did the Headmaster come in the morning with the nurse to check on him. So something grave must have happened. 

The three of them meet midway on the fields. They don’t say anything at the beginning and Madame Pomfrey, without looking directly at him, offers Remus some robes and that’s when he remembers he’s bare naked. He takes them and puts them on, however keeping at all moment eye contact with the Headmaster. 

“Sir--” he starts when he’s fully clothed again with some of his old robes and he’s offered his own wand. 

“Professor Lupin, I’d understand tonight’s been quite. . . Rough and unpleasant for you. Maybe we should talk inside,” he interrupts, gesturing to the Shrieking Shack. 

Remus doesn’t follow him, not having the intention--nor the strength--to do so and above all, postpone this conversation any longer. He wants to know, he needs to know. 

“With all due respect, sir, I don’t think I’ll be able to,” he says, gesturing to the branch he’s using as a crotch. 

If the Headmaster is at all surprised, he doesn’t show it, and turns towards the professor with a kind and affable face, though it doesn’t calm Remus down. If anything, he’s a little bit more concerned. 

“Maybe you should be resting in the hospital wing--” 

“Sir,” begs Remus. And that word alone is enough to make the Headmaster jump, possibly because of the scowl that has escaped Lupin’s mouth. 

“Alright. Well. . . Last night, Sirius Black broke into Hogwarts once more, supposedly through the Shrieking Shack, and--” 

That’s all Remus hears. As all the memories from last night come back to him at once, his weak and exhausted mind can’t cope with the amount of information he’s receiving; as a way of protection, it decides to shut down, and Remus passes out, meeting face-first with the cold grass. 

He can’t have been out for that long, for the light is till growing outside, however he finds himself on his bed at his office, as if it had been any other night of this term after a full moon and he’d safely taken the Wolfsbane Potion. 

But it’s not. This time, he knows that right away. He knows it by the physical pain he feels in every cell of his body, and secondly, by the psychological pain his mind is, still trying to block the information of yesterday evening. Despite the pain, he forces himself to remember everything. He has to. He saw Sirius again, that alone is almost too much for his wasted, poor heart. He saw his only remaining best friend after twelve long years. That is, one hundred and forty-four transformations. Well, now one hundred and forty-five, he guesses. 

But not only that. He learnt that he was innocent. That he was sent to that hellhole, wrongfully charged with the deaths of James and Lily Potter and a dozen of muggles, but worse of all, he was sent there without a trial, because of one of their most trusted friends. How could _Peter_ \--? 

He sighs, not wanting to ask himself that. They answered this yesterday too at the Shrieking Shack, and that is something he couldn’t cope at all. Neither himself, Sirius nor James would have betrayed each other like Peter did that night. They all would have died before doing something like that. 

He suddenly shivers and he stops for a moment to discern what exact memory caused that. The lake, he thinks. The lake. . . In almost complete dark, and terrifying shrieks, even if he heard and now remembers them through the wolf’s ears. In conclusion, there were Dementors by the lake. And that amount of them--they went for Sirius. After all these years he can’t believe the man could face them, being as weak as he was yesterday night, so he guesses Sirius has been taken in again. He refuses to acknowledge any other worst case scenario. 

The despair for the last night becomes anger, and the wave of rage is more than enough for Remus to leave his bed, change his clothes, take the cane someone’s left by the door and leave his office despite the insufferable pain he feels. The anger almost nulls it, as he crosses the empty halls and corridors of Hogwarts, which he is grateful for. Were he to meet any teacher, seeing his physical state he wouldn’t be able to deny he needed his rest nor to resist their recommendations of going back to bed, or even to the hospital wing. Were it a student, he doesn’t know if he’d growl at him or do something much worse than that, as an answer to a proper and educate greeting from the student. So, all in all, is better not to meet anyone. 

So he gets safely to the Headmaster’s office and says the password that activates the gargoyle. Already from the moving stairs he hears voices in a heated discussion inside the office, speaking loudly enough for him to recognize the guest: Cornelius Fudge. That doesn’t really come like a surprise. If they got Sirius Black, obviously the prime minister was to come to Hogwarts. The surprise lies, rather, where must be waiting all the reporters from the Daily Prophet. 

He knocks on the door and bursts into the office without waiting for an answer, that’d have been, undoubtedly, negative. He finds the minister leaning towards Dumbledore, who is sitting calmly on his desk, the first one red and sweating with anger and the yelling and the second one, unusually serene. 

“I need to speak with the Headmaster alone,” demands Remus with quite a respectful tone, all things considered. 

The minister takes the question like a personal offense and frowns at Remus. “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait till we are finished, professor.” 

“Minister, if you’d be kind enough to wait outside the office, we can resume the shouting in a few minutes. Or if you’d rather you can go back to the Ministry. It seems to me you have a lot of work ahead of you,” Dumbledore suggests, peacefully. 

“ _NOW_ ,” growls Remus. He hopes it’s just the aftermath of the transformation, but whether it is his tone or his glare, the Minister picks up his gown and hat, only looking at the Headmaster as he bids farewell. 

“Yes, I suppose I do. Goodbye, Albus, I’ll see you again soon. Professor,” he says to Remus before leaving the office. 

“Severus, you should leave too,” orders Dumbledore without raising his voice. 

Remus jumps when he sees the Potions professor appearing from a shadowy corner with quiet steps and an unemotional face, which is, in the end, just a mask, as Remus can easily see behind it a rage, contempt and fury he quite doesn’t understand. Sirius is behind bars once again; if anything, he should be gleaming. 

“Professor Lupin. Quite an unpleasant and painful night, I take it?” he asks with a snarky voice, glancing sideways at the cane Remus is completely leaning in for support. “You perhaps forgot to take your potion before leaving the castle?” 

Remus can’t take this right now, nor he doesn’t understand why Severus is acting again like the thirteen-year-old the Marauders used to know. He hasn’t taken any personal offense against Snape all the school year. Except stopping three teenage kids stunning him, that is. He can’t be acting like this just for that. He scowls for the second time in a row and Severus, for once in his life taking seriously a threat, nods at Dumbledore. 

Headmaster and professor wait until the door is closed and they hear the gargoyle activating before making eye contact again. Which only brings back Remus’ personal rage above the confusion from Severus’ acting. 

“Was he kissed?” asks Remus first of all. Obviously the Headmaster will understand the question. 

“No, the Dementors were driven away. Sirius Black was taken into custody once again.” 

As Remus opens his mouth to speak again, he stops abruptly, caught in a secondary thought. That amount of Dementors--Sirius surely couldn’t have driven away by himself, or wandless. But the rest of adults were unconscious or unaware of the situation--

“A Patronus?” he asks stupidly. “Who--?” 

“Severus only caught a short glimpse of the corporeal Patronus,” explains Dumbledore. “He swears it was a stag.” 

A stag. For a brief moment Remus can only think of James, his old friend, Sirius’ brother, who would certainly appear out of nowhere to save his brother from the Dementors. It takes Remus a second too long to reason it couldn’t have been James, but his son, who cast the Patronus. An amazing display of magic, if Harry alone by himself--and it must have been like that--drove away all the Dementors. A stag, just like his father. The stag, the dog, the wolf, the rat. Last night the Marauders were reunited once again after twelve years, and probably for the last time. In this lifetime, at least. 

Recovering himself, Remus coughs and steps forward. He can’t get lost in sentimental thoughts right now, when there’s so much to do and ask. At least he can breathe again as his biggest fear has been refuted. 

“I demand to speak to Sirius,” he starts, firmly, loud and clear. “I want to see him and talk to him, alone, without any guards, or anyone within hearing range, before the Minister decides to take him back to Azkaban or does some other stupidity. You need to listen to us, sir--” 

“I’m afraid that’s quite impossible, dear boy.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“You can’t see him.” 

“I have to, before he is sent again to that hellhole without a proper trial, when you and I both know he is--” 

“He’s no longer under our custody nor on Hogwarts grounds”, finishes Dumbledore, stopping Remus’ babbling out of surprise. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks. Sirius was considered to be Voldemort’s second hand, when they captured him they must have placed a huge number of guards in his cell or wherever they kept him. If he’s not there anymore... 

“It seems Sirius Black knows very well his ways in and out the castle, much better than anyone’d thought possible.”

Remus understands the underlying insinuation behind the Headmaster’s words and has to control himself to keep his face straight. Not that much difficult for him after so many years of lying and the anger that’s filling him. “He escaped merely hours ago. I suspect his flee had something to do with Buckbeak's disappearance last night.” 

“Buckbeak?” repeats Remus. With everything the Headmaster is telling him, and the hope he knows he should be feeling, the only thing he’s capable of is repeating the word he can’t connect with the rest of the message, as a way to show his confusion. 

“Hagrid’s hypogriff. Was sentenced to death and was supposed to be executed yesterday evening. More than one life has been saved tonight, it appears,” answers Dumbledore. 

“Indeed,” agrees Remus. 

Still quite in shock, the Headmaster allows him to take his time. 

“But yesterday night I could speak to Sirius. He doesn’t need to flee. He’s innocent, sir, he didn’t kill all those muggles, nor was he responsible for James and Lily’s death!” Pronouncing their names after all this time causes Remus’ heart to skip a few beats, but there’s no way in hell he’s backing down at this point. 

“Either way, he’s safe now. The Dementors’d been authorized to kiss him.” 

“Even so--”

 “Rather alive and in the run than worse than dead,” interrupts Dumbledore. “He’s a tough man, he’ll be alright, I am sure. And some day soon, I hope, we’ll be able to clean his name. But not today, I’m afraid.” 

Remus looks at the Headmaster in the eye and there, he sees something his words didn’t show. He doesn’t want to know how, but he guesses Harry, besides saving Sirius’ life yesterday night had something to do, too, with his flee. Probably with the immensurable help of Hermione and her time turner; and Ronald, if he hadn’t injured his leg, surely would have cooperated too. 

It surprises Remus how the Headmaster doesn’t seem at all bothered by the events. How at the beginning of this same school year he allowed Dementors hover the school grounds believing it’d be an efficient protection from a mass murderer; and yet, now he’s sitting relaxed on his desk, seemingly not taking any action in order to find and arrest a world-wide considered dangerous mass murderer wizard. How he almost looks pleased that Sirius could escape the grup of the Ministry; and thinking it through, Sirius’ escape would never have happened without the ultimate help of the Headmaster, directing from the shadows through two thirteen-year-old teenage kids. Can a grown-up man, who for twelve years firmly believed everything the world believed in too about an individual, change his mind overnight? Remus did, of course, but that’s an entirely different aspect completely, since Sirius and him were true brothers, at Hogwarts and later, and it only took him a good look at the man he used to know, and hearing his plea in all honesty, to believe him. Could Dumbledore--? 

“YOU KNEW?” he shouts all of a sudden, as he realizes the truth. “You knew he was innocent?!”

“Of course not. I only learnt the truth this morning, just like you did yesterday night,” argues the Headmaster, just a bit flabbergasted by Remus’ outburst. “I did not know more than you did.” 

“But I did know!!” shrieks Remus. “I did know my best friend. It was you who told me not to pursue it, that he was guilty, but deep down I knew better! I TOLD YOU THAT HE WAS INNOCENT AND YOU TOLD ME TO LET IT GO!” 

“My boy--” 

“Don’t you dare deny it. You told me not to try to release Sirius and move on. You--you let him spend twelve years of his life in that Azkaban prison--FOR NOTHING! YOU---you--” 

“Remus, please, you have to listen to--” 

“I quit.” The difference from the previous shouting to the low murmur Remus has just spoken with shocks them both, but then while Dumbledore looks completely astonished and speechless, Remus is more reassured of his premeditated choice by the second. “I can’t work here. _I quit._ ” 

“Dear, Remus--” 

“You’ve lied to me for twelve years. I can’t cope with that.” 

“Please, Remus, reconsider. You’re the best DADA teacher these kids have had in--” 

“I am truly sorry for them, Headmaster, but this is on you. I truly appreciate the chance you’ve given me and I’ve enjoyed this school year back at Hogwarts, but I shall be leaving this same morning.” 

With that he leaves the office before Albus tries to stop him, which presumably he doesn’t, because as the stairs bring him back to the hall, he doesn’t hear the door opening again, any shouting or steps following him. All of this only confirms his fears and decision, so he doesn’t look back and starts walking down the corridor. 

He’s been in the office longer than what he’d expecting, seeing the sun is high in the sky and there’s the normal racket of a thousand students resuming once again their academic routines, wether if they’re at breakfast, the Library or on their way to classes. He partially regrets his decision, only because of the kids, since he doesn’t have the guts to attend his classes today, nor recommend any other DADA teacher in such short notice. 

As he turns the corner he sees Cho Chang and Marietta Edgecombe whispering to each other in the ear. He forces himself to greet them as he usually does, however their answer is not at all what he was expecting: they gasp in fear, looking horrified, low their heads and quickly walk the other way without once glancing at him. He follows them with his eyes, a bit thunderstruck with their reaction. But as another boy from Hufflepuff backs away when he sees him standing in the middle of the corridor, he understands it easily enough. He’s been through this more times than he can count --almost as many as his own transformations, he’d dare say. 

He simply turns around and keeps walking towards his office, with slow step, head low, avoiding anyone’s glare, even when he knows no-one will gladly look at him nor meet his eye, though he clearly hears whispering all around him. Another disadvantage of the wolf’s sharp hearing, he sighs. At least no-one dares to cross him or talk to him. 

As soon as he gets to his office--the only place where, as usual, he can hide--he leans against the door and breaths out slowly, as to avoid any harsh remark. It’s obvious to him that Snape has been the one to spread his secret. And it’s fairly obvious too that now he has to leave Hogwarts for good, wether he wants it or not. But he’s too used to this routine to want to fight or argue at this point, so he just accepts that he has to leave either way. 

He goes to his desk and opens the drawers, but he doesn’t get much work done as the first thing his hands touch is the Map. He holds it for a few seconds, dumbfounded, until, in an absolute irrational action, he murmurs “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good” and unfolds the Map, spreading it all over his desk. He spends a couple of minutes checking every name on the parchment, expecting against all odds to see Sirius’ name somewhere, though obviously, he doesn’t. He’d almost hoped he would. That’d be like him, the same way as Padfoot could have appeared out of nowhere outside his window, riding that hypogriff, flying around the castle towers. Or the Sirius he knew, at least. The Padfoot that was his best friend and with whom he crossed the hallways of this same castle hundreds of times; not the one he saw yesterday night, almost on his bones, torn after twelve years at Azkaban, haunted every hour of every day by all the events that happened in 1981. 

Accepting the truth, Remus leaves the Map and resumes packing his stuff up, glancing now and then the Map. That’s how he realizes Harry’s coming to his office to see him--probably one of the only three students that would want to see him now. And right on time: Harry’s the only one person Remus wants to speak to, and this way he won’t have to wander around the castle to find him and have a chat with. If it were possible, he’s most sorry for leaving Harry, when he’s been keeping an eye on the kid for the whole year and, besides, he knows he has a great potential for becoming a marvelous wizard; just by saying he cast a perfect corporeal Patronus last night it’d be proof enough for anyone. But he’s made his mind, or rather, he knows he can’t work for Dumbledore anymore. 

Harry seems most astonished to see him leave because of his lycanthropy, even if it’s the only rational choice to make, though obviously Remus won’t tell Harry the true reason why he’s leaving Hogwarts. 

“You’re the best Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher we’ve ever had! _Don’t go!_ ” 

A feeling of warmth, affection and gratitude fills Remus, a bit dazzled by the sentence, knowing that’s something Lily and James would have told him. Well, they’d be much more passive aggressive than that --he imagines James unpacking his bags over and over as he tried to make them, or literally dragging him back to his office when he got to the Great Hall or Hogsmeade station, or yelling at him till his lungs couldn’t take it anymore. Probably he would be more inventive, but overall they could change his mind. Maybe. What’s for sure, Harry has indeed inherited his parents’ best qualities. Before he finds himself crying or starting to babble to Harry a two-hours worth of stories of James and Lily Potter, he prefers to change the subject. 

“From what I heard from the Headmaster, you saved a lot of lives last night, Harry. If I’m proud of anything, it’s how much you’ve learned. Tell me about your Patronus.” 

This seems to surprise Harry but, what else could have driven the Dementors back? What else could have saved Sirius from being kissed by those horrible creatures? Thank goodness Harry was there and could conjure the Patronus. He doesn’t think he can truly express how proud he is of Harry, but he hopes he’ll understand with time. It is a spell even James and Sirius had trouble with, and Harry, younger than the both of them were when they learnt the spell, could conjure a full-corporeal one and drive off a hundred Dementors at the young age of thirteen. 

The conversation is cut short when the Headmaster gets to the office, informing Remus he has ready the carriage to get to Hogsmeade. Harry doesn’t seem too happy about it, and in all honesty, neither is Remus, but Albus’ presence and therefore, lack of rational action against Sirius, only reassures him he’s taken the right decision. It takes him a good length of strength too, not to fight again with the Headmaster, not in front of Harry, who honestly doesn’t deserve it. He needs to be by Albus, he can protect the kid, and, besides his flaws, the Headmaster is almost the only parental figure Harry’s got, and he cannot lose him now. He has a feeling Harry might actually worship the Headmaster a bit too much, blind to his many flaws--today Remus has just discovered a new one--, but that’s much better than not to trust the Headmaster. After all, mistrust was what brought Remus to believe Sirius could have been working for the other side and could have sold Lily and James to Voldemort, and that is something he can’t let happen again in the new generation, on the edge of a new war. He couldn’t forgive himself. He has learnt, probably the hard way, that union makes strength. 

Seeing Remus’ passive predisposition as he grabs his bags and the cane, ready to leave the office, Hogwarts and his teaching carreer, Harry doesn’t argue again the development of the events, and so the professor leaves without twice looking behind. 

He has good reasons to hurry, actually. If he can’t keep an eye on Harry anymore, he has only one other important priority: Sirius himself. He wants to find him as soon as possible and have a long chat that’s long overdue. They should have catch on last evening, but obviously the Shrieking Shack wasn’t the best place for a twelve-year delayed reunion, nor in a full moon night. A list of the possibilities where Sirius might go onto hiding is already shaping in his mind, with, really, just a few options: Potter Manor, Godric’s Hollow, the old apartment the five of them shared after leaving Hogwarts, Remu’s cottage. The first two are way too obvious and were already put under surveillance back for Sirius’ escape from Azkaban, and probably will be put under vigilance now as well, but he’ll check them too just in case. He wants to see Sirius, embrace him, stay close to him and make up for all these years. 

At Hogsmeade station he has a hard time boarding the train with his suitcase, just like he had at London’s King’s Cross Station at the beginning of the year. The same feeling of loneliness, hopeless and sadness that overtook Remus back then sends shivers down his spine now: during his years at Hogwarts he never once believed he’d crossed these halls, stations, platforms and train by himself, being the last one of the Marauders, nor he’d had such a common and stupid problem like carrying his bag. If a trip were that much close to a full moon his friends would have stolen his luggage and carried it to the train while he’d be in despair for the disappearances of his bags. But now he’s not just missing his friends and regretting what went on in 1981; now everything’s worse, as he’s learnt the truth and knows what really happened that night, what could have been, what he could have done. 

He goes straight at the compartment closest to the exit door and just allows himself to leave the suitcase on the seat by his side. After all it’s not going to bother anyone, he reflects as he sits and covers himself with his coat, up to his chin, shivering in the cold train, where obviously no-one’s thought to start the engine yet or the heaters. He leans onto the wall with a deep sigh, deep in thought, his heart in a fist clenched. ‘Forgive me, Padfoot, dearest, oldest friend. I should have fought for you. I should have never given up on you. I always knew you were innocent, I knew you better than anyone, with the exception of James.’ He knows there’s no way he’ll ever repay for those twelve years Sirius spent in Azkaban and that’s probably the worst of it, knowing that both times Padfoot’s been on the crossroad, he’s failed his best friend. 

The first time he was convinced, without truly reason, with all the “evidence” piled against him, and being the supposedly only survivor from the duel between him and Wormtail, and because everyone thought he still was James and Lily’s Secret Keeper, therefore the only one who could have revealed to Lord Voldemort their location. All of it, now that he thinks it through, stupid evidence. He knew the truth all along and yet, he did nothing.

 _“Believe me. I never betrayed Lily and James. I would have died before I betrayed them.”_ Those are the words Sirius said in all honesty yesterday night at Harry, that were enough to make the teenager see truth. If only Remus’d heard them once twelve years ago, he’d have believed Sirius just as quickly, and fought the Ministry to release him, even if Albus wouldn’t have helped him. But back then he couldn't begin to entertain the idea of facing the man who'd killed three of his best friends; how could he see him and say goodbye to him thinking that was the end of everything? The end of an era, the Marauders, a family. . . How can someone could have said goodbye to all that? Right now, he feels a complete and utter stupid. His lack of trust feels like a treason worse than Peter’s itself. He should have done so much and yet stood by, following obediently Dumbledore’s orders. 

And the worse of all is that, after knowing the truth, when Sirius faced another crossroad, he once again wasn’t there to help him through it this time. His lycanthropy has taken yet another thing from him--proving once again that it is not just a furry little problem. Due to that curse he’s spent the night in the woods, when Sirius, after a too brief blissful moment with Remus and Harry, has suffered again the horrible effect of the Dementors after having escaped them, has wondered for hours if he’d get kissed in any minute, or if this time he’d die in Azkaban, while Peter’s on the loose once more. It surely hasn’t been a pleasant night for the remaining Marauders. He twice has failed his best friend when he most needed help from him, unlike the many times Padfoot--and Prongs and Wormtail--has spent the full moon with Moony. Once they even stayed Christmas hols at Hogwarts just because the full moon coincided with Christmas’ Eve and he wasn’t going home. 

At least Harry could improve last night a little bit. He is so grateful for that. It is true that Sirius is far better off alive than death, or soulless. With a bit of luck he’ll flee out of the country and have a long and deserved holiday far away from Azkaban and the Wizarding World that will be once again at his heels. He knows perfectly well Sirius won’t do anything of that sort, not with Harry, his only important thing remaining in this world, still at Hogwarts and living in a muggle neighborhood; but that’s precisely why he needs to find Sirius, or rather, Sirius will find him, and they’ll have a proper reunion and long talk.

He barely notices when the train starts moving, sound asleep, dreaming blissfully of a happy reunion of the original four Marauders he had wished would eventually happen, but that now he knows it won’t ever be possible. He wishes he could take a hold of Wormatil, and doubts, too, there’ll ever be a reunion of Padfoot and Moony. So the chances are that last night was the last time all four Marauders were together.


	41. Chapter 41

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An Order meeting at Grimmauld Place goes astray with the presence of Severus Snape and Sirius Black.

The silent ward warns them all well in advance of the individual approaching their hide-away, so everyone’s in position on time: the kids asleep, or at least pretending to be, upstairs in the dorms, with Molly keeping an eye on them; the Order members already waiting at the kitchen, whether seated or standing, some holding a warm cup of tea or any other alcoholic drink in their hands for strength; and lastly, Sirius, waiting impatiently--the only way he know how--by the entrance door for Dumbledore to step inside the Place and proves by casting the Patronus charm that it is actually him and not someone impersonating him. 

“A moment of your time, please, Albus?” begs Sirius when the Headmaster’s on his way to the kitchens. 

“Being honest--” 

Sirius interjects the Headmaster rudely; wasn’t asking for permission. 

“This way,” he orders sharply, dragging the man by the arm without contemplations to the family tree room and closing the door behind him. When he faces Albus, his tired expression only ignites even more the fire within Sirius. 

“If this is what I think it is. . .” 

“Damn right, it is,” explodes Sirius, stepping forward to stand in the middle of the room. “You can’t keep me prisoner forever. There’s so much work to do.” 

“I am not keeping you prisoner,” replies slowly the Headmaster, to Sirius’ big surprise and dazzlement. “You don’t need to be told where the door is. Only thing, my estimate is you’ll be lucky if you stay alive out there for more than one hour.” 

“No one would recognize me as Padfoot,” scowls Sirius. 

“And what good do you think you can do in your Animagus form?” presses Albus. 

“More than you think,” promises the man. “Keep an eye on a mission, alert if there’s any intruder--” 

“Death Eaters would be on high alert for a runaway dog in a place he’s got no reason to be,” reasons the Headmaster. 

“Well, at least let me keep an eye on Harry!” 

Albus’s calmed façade disappears at that moment and Sirius gets that piercing glare he used to hate back at Hogwarts--and still hates today, which forces him to take one step backwards. 

“That is impossible,” says Albus, redundant. 

“He’s my godson and you’ve left him completely out!” 

“I’ve not--” 

“Who’s to say he’s truly safe and sound in that Muggle neighborhood?” 

“He’s safer than here with us, I promise you that.” 

“For Pete’s sake--How can you tell?!” 

“That boy’s inquisitive. He’ll be interested in our doings and planning. He’ll want a part in it.” 

“I’d welcome him in the Order!” 

“I am aware of that. But it’s not something I can allow to happen.” 

“Well, that decision should be Harry’s, not yours, Albus.” 

“Can’t be yours either, Sirius,” the Headmaster points out. “It’s better to keep him away from all this, let him have a normal life--” 

“The thing is, he doesn’t have a normal life in that place!” Sirius points out exasperated. “He’s fled that home once before! If he’s not aware of the true risks, something might convince him into doing so again!” 

“We’ll keep an eye in case that happened, but in the meantime--” 

“Let me be one of those men posted at Privet Drive!” 

“Sirius.” 

It’s there, once again. He’s still unable not to listen to that voice. Albus didn’t even raise his voice, his face is still calm even, but the stern, mildly reprimand gets him speechless nevertheless. And Sirius just knows he’s lost this round--another one. 

“I refuse to have this debate every time I come by,” Albus resumes, his tone harsh, redundant. “Harry will spend the rest of his summer in Privet Drive, safe and sound, with no visitors from anyone of the Order; and you are not to leave this household under any circumstances. Are we clear?” 

He waits for an answer piercing at Sirius above his spectacles, the way he used to do back at Hogwarts. But one thing has changed since then: Sirius always used to have an answer or remark for the Headmaster. Now he just stays silent in refusal and disapproval of his plans--and Albus takes it as the end of the conversation. 

Sirius appreciates the kind gesture from the Headmaster of leaving the room’s door open for him to join everyone else in the kitchens, but the man doesn’t do so, he cannot move from his spot right at the center of the room. He feels so utterly useless, it’s making him go completely mad. He’d be crazy to compare Grimmauld Place to Azkaban prison, but truly, both resemble. What’s the point in joining the meeting if, however bad things look and truly are in reality, he won’t be allowed a say in the discussions nor do anything at all, even when he could be of some use. 

In the end, the crosses the hall, a sullen and slow walk, grudgingly, to at least be on the loop of the situation, however useless he is to the cause--he’s almost as valuable as any of the underage children from upstairs who’re not allowed in this meetings. 

He peers above Remus’ shoulder, who notices first his presence as he was clearly waiting to see him, and shifts to allow him a bit more space, so it at least looks like he’s part of the conversation too. They stand on opposite sites of the threshold, the sides of their arms and feet touching, sending varying concerned looks to each other: when Remus leaves this place he’ll try once more the idiotic quest of joining the werewolves community in an attempt to position them openly against Voldemort; and Sirius will still be forced to stay inside this household without any future prospects of escaping this prison, the one he fled from when he was only fifteen. They so wish they could do more for one another, despite the clear, direct orders they’ve both received from Albus--they didn’t exactly have the time to catch up for lost time and make up for the terrible mistakes they made in the past. 

This is just an ordinary meeting, made compulsory by Albus Dumbledore once a month, so everybody in the Order reports back to the man--mostly bad news. No one’s made much progress in recruiting suicidal wizards and witches to the cause and they’re still losing a War that hasn’t even ben declared by the Ministry yet. Ten minutes after Sirius’ appearance, Albus dismisses the meeting, not changing anyone’s commands for the time being--so he’s fine with sending Remus back to the werewolf communities. And that’s not the only crusade Sirius considers to be utterly bullshit. 

“Albus,” he calls out when everyone starts to stand, pack and leave, passing by members, who all know what’s in his mind tonight, as he tries to cross the kitchens. 

“Not now, please, Sirius,” begs Albus, disappearing from the door furthest from Sirius. He allows him to because he’s interested in confronting someone else altogether, who will not escape this time. 

“You,” he bellows, pointing angrily at Snape, on the other side of the kitchen table. 

That single monosyllable attracts the attention of quite a few people, who slower their pace on the way out, wondering if they should stay to keep the peace and prevent this hide-away from blowing off. But seeing as Remus stands close by Sirius, warning him to take it easy with a silent look, and Minerva’s staying on her seat, they figure they won’t be mourning any losses in the morning and that it’s their best option to leave. 

“All that information on Voldemort’s new recruits. If I ever find out all that was rubbish--” says Sirius. 

“D’you think I’m lying about the powers and influence Lord Voldemort’s gained in only a month?” demands Severus coldly. 

“We already know he’s grown even more powerful! But if any of that is false. . .”

“I don’t have to answer to you, Black, much less when your empty threats mean nothing compared to those of Lord Voldemort,” scowls Severus, turning to openly face his back to Sirius. 

“I’m not finished!” bellows Padfoot, thanking the still functioning Silencing Charm around the kitchens. 

“Sirius,” reprimands Remus, resting a hand on his arm. A gesture too small to really mean anything to him and make Sirius calm down. 

“You will never give Lord Voldemort any clues about my godson’s whereabouts. If you ever dare to do so they’ll find your corpse next day, but I’ll be the one who’ll cast the Killing Curse, not Him.” 

“That’s enough death threats for tonight,” scowls Minerva, her standing from the chair the clear sign Sirius’ stepped over some kind of line. But Severus speaks as if they hadn’t been interrupted, his voice a pretended surprise aimed to mock Sirius. 

“My, that’s almost touching. But I follow Dumbledore’s orders, not yours, Black--and if what’s required from me in order to keep my cover in the eyes of Lord Voldemort is telling him anything about the boy, including where he lives or what kind of pumpkin juice he drinks at breakfast so I can poison it, I’ll--” 

“You’ll keep your mouth shut!” shrieks Sirius, who looks well ready to jump over the table to strangle Severus--and maybe Remus’ touch on his shoulder is the main reason as to why he hasn’t tried to do so, just yet. “I don’t care what Dumbledore’s orders are! You made an oath to protect the wizards and witches of this country!” 

In spite of Sirius’ yells and clearly aggressive body language, Severus remains quite, impassible, on his corner, half in the darkness, almost looking down on Black--fully knowing such kind of behavior will only trigger him even more. 

“We’re all on the same side here,” reminds Minerva coldly. “He’s as interested as we are in keeping that boy safe.” 

“Like hell he is!” scowls Sirius, spitting on the floor. 

“Perhaps you haven’t noticed by staying in the safety of this Place for so long, Black--but we’re fighting a War out there. And we’re actively losing. One life compared to the thousands of hundreds that could be lost if we lost is nothing. Good night, Minerva.” he bids farewell politely to the Deputy Headmistress as he sets to leave. 

“You’re going nowhere!” 

To everyone’s dismay, Severus stops mid-track at the kitchen’s threshold, ponders for a second and then turns towards Sirius. They’re closer now, which doesn’t do well for Remus nor Minerva, reason why they both step forwards to stand between the two opponents, just in case something set them off suddenly. 

“One last thing, Black. Please try not to interfere with those of us who are actually risking our necks out there. You getting caught and being sent to back to Azkaban wouldn’t help anybody from the Order, much less your godson you seem so close to. We won’t be able to get you off this time.”   
“As if any of you had moved a finger back in the day,” scowls Sirius, under his breath--he knows this accusation won’t hurt Severus as much as other people, and he can almost see Remus flinching upon his words. Plus, he can’t see her, but even Minerva’s eyes drop to the ground because of his words, remorse still a very recent feelings amongst the Order members. 

Pondering the reaction from his peers, Severus considered the discussion over and turns around once more, but apparently Sirius is not done for the night--while he’s at it, why stop there. 

“You’d be willing to sacrifice Lily Evans’ only child?!” he bellows behind the man. 

That sentence, which gets gasps and bewildered stutters from Minerva and Remus, was the only thing that could have stopped Severus. He freezes in the middle of the corridor and only looks at Sirius above his shoulder, very carefully containing his anger or able to hide his emotions showing on his face. 

“If a fifteen-year-old’s life could put a stop to this War and to Lord Voldemort, I’d surrender him to the Dark Lord myself,” he says, more the statement of a fact than a threat, Sirius notices. 

“YOU SCUMBAG!!” roars him--and this time, Remus is the only person physically stopping him from knocking out Severus and slit his throat. “You’re a coward, pretentious, son of a bitch traitor ewho thinks only of himself! There’s no wonder why Lily left you!” 

Once again, the accusation doesn’t seem to affect Severus in the slightest, which only triggers Sirius’ anger a bit more. Snape doesn’t move a muscle, his eyes don’t twitch for a second, there’s not the hint of sadness in his look, and his voice stays even when he speaks again. 

“Think whatever you want. But you might be keen to remember that Mr. Potter’s still alive and no one’s found out where he lives,” says Severus as farewell. 

“Just yet,” scowls Sirius, determined to have the last word. 

Although it was another clear accusation that could set off the ultimate flame between the two, fortunately for everybody, Snape doesn’t say another word before finally crossing the corridor and leave Grimmauld Place for good, leaving only Minerva, Remus and Sirius at the kitchen, the first two standing utterly dumbfounded due to the last argument they’ve witnessed since the reinstitution of the Order. 

“Sirius, you bloody well know we would have pulled you out of that place if we’d know--” 

“Yes, I do, don’t worry,” he tries to mend, too late, his words already out there and plastered in Moony’s mind for life. 

“Plus, he’s right, you know,” presses Moony, shocked after such accusations coming from his former and only best friend. “None of us has the political power to save your ass. So don’t risk it.” 

“I’m well aware and I’d never ask that to any of you,” promises Sirius. “You don’t have to worry, really. They won’t catch me alive.” 

“Don’t--Don’t say that,” begs Remus. 

Only because of the despair he hears in Moony’s voice, does Sirius shrug, pretending to agree not to do anything reckless in the imminent future. However, deep down, that’s one of the few things he’s completely convinced of. If something happened and the Ministry found him, he wouldn’t be sent back to Azkaban. Two prisons are more than enough to last a lifetime. 

“Backing off, Sirius,” starts Minerva slowly, in that way that the man just knows there’s going to be a scolding, “if I may, you really have to let go of some old prejudices.” 

“Professor,” whispers Sirius, turning around ever so slowly, exhausted when he doesn’t move from the house, precisely because he cannot abandon the house. “I hate Severus, but this is not it--this is not for what we all did back at Hogwarts. I just want to look after my godson and make sure he survives this War.” 

“Has it occurred to you that he is concerned for the boy too?” 

“Rubbish,” scowls Sirius, pulling up a chair too fiercely, the scratching sound against the floor hurting their ears. He summons a glass of firewhiskey from the cupboard but doesn’t taste it yet, letting the coldness of the liquid cool his fingers and hoping it extends to his peace of mind. 

“Same way we all are, everything that he does is to protect the Wizardry community,” says Minerva, sitting as well, on her previous chair. “Including, obviously, Mr. Potter.” 

“Incidentally,” Sirius remarks with venom. 

Sighing deeply, Remus sits down also, two seats from Sirius’ right. Taking a good look at him, Sirius summons another glass of firewhiskey, laying it before Moony, and then a third one, out of courtesy, for Minnie, placing it between her hands. After a second of consideration, the three of them sip from their drinks. 

“All I’m saying is that we need to heed Dumbledore’s words: trust each other. As you well know, we’ve got very few allies. We can’t turn our backs on those who’ve been there with us from the beginning.” 

“Minnie, back at Hogwarts Severus befriended known Death Eaters and followers of Lord Voldemort. Some of them are currently serving life sentences in Azkaban. Some others, you meet every time you go out there on a duel,” Sirius reminds her coldly. 

“And back at Hogwarts, you almost froze to death when you jumped into the Great Lake in mid-December on a dare with James,” replies Minerva, her voice a thousand more times stern than Sirius could never have pulled off. “My point is--we’ve all done some stupid things in the past we regret as we grow old. And those friendships, Sirius, are what helped us send two Death Eaters who’d escaped from Azkaban right back where they belonged.” 

“Mere luck.” 

“Dear Lord, Sirius. . .” scowls Remus, while Minerva settles for a roll of eyes before resuming her speech. 

“Dumbledore once told me Severus’ work for Lord Voldemort was key to preventing James and Lily’s deaths.” 

Sirius almost chokes on his drink--and this time Remus also looks back at their former Head of House with astonishment and a bit of anger in his eyes, demanding answers that now, she’s obviously forced to deliver to the two men. Sirius nor Remus had ever expected such a confession fourteen years after their best friends’ death and wait, horrorstruck, as she takes the second sip of her firewhiskey. 

“D’you see them here, Minnie?” demands Sirius, raising his voice dangerously, signaling the kitchen with a wave of his arm. 

“Severus warned Dumbledore that the Potters should go into hiding, Sirius.” 

“No,” he scowls, flatly refusing such a lie. “It was Dumbledore’s idea. Severus had no idea. When Dumbledore heard Sybill’s prophecy--” 

“Snape found out Lord Voldemort thought the prophecy talked about Harry and he warned Dumbledore, who suggested the couple to go into hiding,” Minnie explains, slowly, as to give them time to understand her words. “It would have worked if they hadn’t decided to switch the Secret Keeper without telling Albus.” And although the decision still weights on them all, the three do well in not dwelling in remorse; there’s nothing any of them can do about that anymore. 

“How do you know all this?” demands Sirius. 

“And why haven’t you told us before?” presses Remus. 

“Albus instructed me not to, on Severus’ behalf. The only reason why I’m disobeying his orders is so you can see that you can trust Severus. He’s on our side,” she says, the last couple of sentences looking straight at Sirius. 

The sullen man, looking deep in thought into his glass, shoulders dropped, doesn’t say a word for a full minute. 

“Maybe not,” he scowls. “Perhaps it was him who turned in James and Lily to Voldemort.” 

“Oh, Sirius, please!” scoffs Remus, slamming the table. Padfoot mistrusts Snape from the very first day the Order was reinstated, but not until this point of despair had he dared to accuse Severus of straightforwardly killing James and Lily. It was bad enough to learn that Pettigrew was behind those deaths all along. 

“He already knew they went into hiding!” insists Sirius, intent on not being defeated. “Changing the story a little bit, he could save his arse and still go back working for Voldemort when he reappeared!” 

“Sirius, this is nonsense,” scowls Minerva, looking truly appalled. “I beg you to stop. How can you prove any of these allegations?” 

“Can you prove otherwise?” dares Sirius, tilting his head to one side. 

Minnie finally gives up with him, fed up with being the one in charge of pulling the chestnuts out of the fire for Sirius every time after an Order meeting, all in her attempt to keep peace at least within the Order. In a deep groan, she finishes her drink in one last sip and stands, so abruptly that she knocks over her own chair and the three glasses of firewhiskey on the table. Remus fixes it all with a wave of his wand before someone ends up losing their mind. 

“Well, I wanted to talk to you two about something, but maybe another time will suit you better,” she says, heading for the exit. 

Upon those words, upon that severe tone that still works all this time after Hogwarts, the two grown-up men realize how unconsiderate and ungrateful they’ve been towards their former Head of House and valuable member of the Order and immediately, faster than she’d expected, act accordingly. 

“No, please, Minnie,” says Remus, standing to show respect towards the woman, glaring at Sirius so he at least does something to defuse the bomb he’s created all by himself. 

“We apologize,” he whispers, signaling for Minnie’s chair. 

Minerva doesn’t budge for a few seconds, but both Remus and Sirius know that if she hasn’t left for good just yet, it’s only because she’s playing hard to get. In the end, she accepts the invitation, but doesn’t sit down, and so neither do Moony or Padfoot, although the latter doesn’t mind leaning his elbows on the back of his chair. Minnie can’t really tell him off after another glass of firewhiskey appears on her hands. 

“Well, it does concern your godson,” she says. 

Both men lean forwards at the same time, Sirius holding onto the chair, Remus grabbing tightly his glass, showing not only their interest in anything but the War, but also their full attention and dedication to whatever this is. They proved it fourteen years ago: they’d do anything within their power for that child. The commitment still stands nowadays. 

“I have a favor to ask you,” proceeds McGonagall, for the first time in years looking a bit uncertain before the two Marauders. 

“Name it,” says Sirius, even before Minerva fills them in, willing to fulfill whatever it is, same as Remus.


	42. Chapter 42

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grimmauld Place, sometime during 5th year. Sirius (Padfoot) can't bring himself to sleep and wanders around the house late at night. He's not the only one still awake.

The dog scratches the wooden floor desperately, only rising specks of dust into the air, till the creaking gets too loud and he stops, ears raised. After a few seconds of complete silence, certain that he’s the only creature awaken this late at night, the animal lowers his head and snuffles all the room with his nose glued to the floor, whining quietly. He gives up in a too humanly way less than ten minutes later and heads towards the door. Using both paws to turn the doorknob as only a human could have thought of, the animal gets out of the bedroom, panting quietly. Only the creaking sounds under his paws accompany him as Padfoot climbs up the stairs towards the dome. He stops first by the second-floor dormitories, but, recognizing two different smells in the room he was interested in, the animal resumes his way without detours, stepping carefully on the creaky steps he remembers painfully well. It’s not the first time--and sadly it won’t be the last time--when he’s wandered around the house wishing against hope not to wake anybody, specially his late, _dear_ parents. 

At the attic, Buckbeak’s resting against the north wall, head against his paws. When he sees the dog approaching to him, the hippogriff bows his head and opens his paws as if in a hug, allowing Padfoot to lie beside him and rest against his soft, leather corpse. The hippogriff even covers him with one of the wings, as if it was a blanket. He must remember that same sleeping positions from the time they were both hiding at Hogsmeade last year. It used to help them both; to keep warm, and to rest in peace. 

Unfortunately, not one of them can find any peace nowadays living inside this bloody Manor. Less than twenty minutes later the dog rolls his eyes, and sighing deeply in a whimper, he steps away from Buckbeack. The hippogriff hasn’t gotten either any sleep, as he’s looking down at Padfoot as soon as he moves. And isn’t at all impressed or frightened when the huge, black dog transforms swiftly into a man right before his eyes. 

Sirius, giving up all hope to get any other minute of sleep tonight, summons from his chambers a robe and his wand and covers himself with the first item, knotting the belt on his waist. He thought that as an animal the nightmares wouldn’t haunt him as much as they do as every second he’s Sirius, he thought he could live as a dog again, since animals comprehend emotions and process information in a much simpler way compared to humans. But he’s already seen how dogs can still feel an overwhelming wave of fear, despair and sorrow. Which are unbearable for him in every room on this god-damn Manor he can’t even consider home. 

As Buckeack lets out a loud whimper, he steps closer to him, now taller than the animal, patting his head. 

“How’re you holding up?” he asks. 

The animal raises its head to look at him with would suffice as a mocking look before dropping the head again, resting it against its paws. 

“You and I both, pal,” he scoffs. 

Buckbeack isn’t the only one who everyday misses those months they spent in Hogsmeade. Even when it was dead cold, the caves weren’t a place fit for humans living in there, he couldn’t transform into his human form outside the caves and they had to feed from rats, Sirius misses Hogsmeade so much as well. They had freedom, they weren’t chained or obliged to do anything they didn’t want to. They could enjoy open, fresh air once again after an almost certain execution. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I wish I could let you go.”

He hates to give the animal the words he so hates to receive and he’s up to release him anytime, but it’s rather difficult letting him out unnoticed when this house is never empty. And even if he could, they’re at center London, muggles might see him and, worse of all, wizards might recognize him. The only thing that makes his stay better than Sirius’ is that the animal spends his days chasing off rats in the attic, all the bones piled in a corner, which in all, must be kind of exciting or at least, entertaining. 

Buckbeak starts to bite his fingers, carefully, in a playing way, but Sirius knows his beak isn’t that innocent after a while, so it’s better to leave rather than losing a finger or an arm. Patting its head, he tries to rise, but his aching body fails him more often than he’d confess. Noticing, Buckbeak holds his head up so Sirius can lean on him, and the hippogriff helps him stand and stays still for some seconds, letting the man rest against him till he feels steady. 

“Thank you, buddy,” he says, patting its head again. 

The hippogriff bows his head and watches Sirius closely while he leaves the room with tumbling steps. He can’t take as much care as before not to make any noise o his way down, and he can only hope he’s not waking anybody up. 

But the one person he absolutely didn’t want to see tonight is the only one who appears all of a sudden in front of him, in the middle of the stairs, with a low popping sound. They both stare at each other for some long seconds, knowing fully well what the house-elf was up to this late at night, waiting for the storm to arise. But Sirius’s too tired even for that. 

“Get out of my sight,” he scowls. 

“Certainly, sir,” concedes Kreacher in delight, bowing before disappearing as quickly as he’s got there. 

Alone again, Sirius lets out a huge sigh, knowing it’s useless to try to reason with the house-elf, but not knowing what to do with him besides yelling or getting mad every time he sees him. Kreacher only respects him now because he’s his master, but other than that, they both would gladly send the other one to War and cry if they didn’t die. 

Giving up on that fight for tonight, Sirius resumes climbing down the stairs, and stops once more in front of Harry’s and Ronald’s room. He isn’t the only one on this house who can’t sleep a night through these days. Right now Harry looks at peace, but judging by the previous nights he guesses the boy’s still getting a couple more hours of sleep before waking up from some nightmare. The house can’t help him much either; after all, they both were raised in abusive homes. 

Having checked that out, he resumes his walking towards the kitchens. There isn’t much here he can use to relax, besides a sleeping potion, which are pretty much useless to him, but moving is better than lying in bed tossing and turning, trying to keep the nightmares at bay. None will work either way. 

Few months back he was happy as Padfoot at Hogsmeade, living off rats, with Buckbeak, close to Harry. Now that he’s got all the accommodations possible, he’s in a living hell. Though his diet wasn’t that good back at Hogsmeade, he was recovering from his stay at Azkaban, all the Dementors were back guarding that hell-hole prison, and most of all, he was partially free to, above everything else, keep an eye on Harry and help him. Now he’s not able to leave this goddamn house, feels completely useless and can spend all day long for himself, which is the last thing he needs right now. Some sick, twisted turn of events--that’s probably Walburga’s hand up there, he scoffs. 

Sirius suddenly realizes a dim mixture of blue and yellow light coming from the library, which should be empty this late at night. He’s got a pretty clear idea of who might be in there, of course, there’s only one person crazy enough to not only be out of bed at two in the morning, but also be in the library reading Merlin knows which book. So inquisitive, though already knowing what to expect in there, he steps into the library, opening the door only halfway. 

Indeed, Moony’s sitting on the floor in the middle of the room, his wand’s tip light, as well as a couple of candles. It’s enough light to see where one’s going, but not enough to read in proper conditions; he’s crouched in a seemingly uncomfortable way over a book resting on his lap. But that’s their Moony: when he finds a position to read, he can stay like that and not budge for hours. Sirius has seen Moony reading in any possible angle at Hogwarts’ library; the comparison almost makes him laugh and, despite knowing he shouldn’t let emotions get to him anymore, he rests against the door’s frame and stares at his old, dear friend. 

The man doesn’t realize his presence as he slowly turns the pages of the book, taking his own good time, scribbling on a notebook and scratching mindlessly now his arm, now his back, a sign he also remembers seeing too often from Remus, as if it was his tic. Sirius figures that after ten minutes he should probably announce himself, and so he gently knocks on the frame and clears his throat. 

Moony doesn’t jump in fright, proving Sirius that he may have noticed his presence in advance but decided as well not to let him know so, and turns, relaxed as only he can be after hours of reading, to welcome him with a warm smile, offering him an already cold cup of tea. Sirius takes it and sits beside Remus, taking a sip of the tea. 

“Moony. Do you know what time it is?” 

Only then the man cares to take a look at his watch and smiles shyly, scratching the back of his neck. Each of those gestures, the same ones how Moony used to act and response back at Hogwarts; Padfoot hadn’t realized he still remembered. 

“Guess I didn’t notice it was this late,” he whispers. 

But Sirius understands the subtext on his friend’s confession and asks casually, trying to see the book’s cover. 

“Can’t sleep?”

“Of course not.”

He sighs, deeply sorry. He should have known. He shouldn’t have forgotten something like this. He wouldn’t if he hadn’t been sent to Azkaban, if he’d stayed with Remus these past thirteen years, with Prongs and Wormtail and Lily, as it should have been, as they’d planned. But since he can’t apologize anymore and any other arguments have been long said and there’s nothing else he can say or do at this moment--he remembers the helplessness awfully well too--he figures it’s best to change the topic and signals the book on Remus’ lap. 

“I thought you’d have devoured all the books in this library by now.” 

“Actually, I have,” he confesses, showing a shy grin Sirius has missed so much these past thirteen years. 

“So? I don’t think these books can tell you anything you don’t already know.” 

Remus avoids his gaze, shy, and under the warm light of the candles, blushes. He never could take a compliment or a praise. So, as he usually did, changes the subject as soon as he can. 

“And I think you’re overestimating me. But there’s a lot Harry doesn’t.” 

At that, Sirius’ heart skips a beat and it takes him a long moment to breathe again. Ever since the day that his godson was born, the kid has been under a grave threat. It was a miracle he survived Voldy’s attack when he was a baby--seriously, he’s still waiting for an answer to that--and in spite of knowing that old Voldy had lost most of his powers, they knew perfectly well he wasn’t gone. Voldemort couldn’t be defeated just like that. Harry’s been in danger almost every day of his life, a thought that lead him to escape Azkaban eventually, but nowadays the threat is even greater, now that he’s got his powers back. . . Thanks to Wormtail. The day he gets hold of that SOB. . . 

“Padfoot? You still here?” asks Remus, concerned for his best friend’s endured silence. 

The man wants to laugh, cry and set the house on fire, all at once, after hearing his old nickname. No-one’s called him Padfoot in a very, very long time and he was almost expecting never to be called by that nickname again; he’s missed it. He’d almost forgotten, to be honest. 

“I just dozed off a bit,” he replies, rubbing his eyes. “I’m sorry. Just--You’re right,” he says finally, getting back to a nearly safe topic. “He’s in no way prepared for what’s to come.” 

Remus, despite knowing he’s just pretending, nods and follows his suit.

“And an incompetent DADA teacher’s the last thing he needed right now”, he sighs and, deep inside, Sirius can see how Remus is truly sorry for not being teaching at Hogwarts anymore. He’s listened to his explains and, though he understands them, he also knows he should never have left the school. His academic years were the best time of his life; it was an obvious wonder going back there, doing what he was most passionate about ever since they met him. And considering how he’s praised by the students, they would like to have him back as well. 

But that’s not an argument they need to discuss anymore either. 

“Well, at least he’s not forgot everything he’s learnt,” says Sirius, trying to soothe Remus a bit. 

“Yeah, thank Merlin he’s practicing the defensive and offensive spells he knows, thanks to those DA meetings. Though I cannot condone all these students taking part in an illegal association,” he adds as an afterthought, which only makes Sirius burt out laughing, for the first time in weeks, probably, for once the guests and his parents not the only thing in his mind. 

“Come on, Moony, as if we would have done anything different, with the education that woman was giving them.” 

Remus can’t possibly deny it, though he doesn’t confess they’d pull awfully practical jokes on Umbridge, if her tyranny were to take place when the four of them were still at Hogwarts. Maybe they could give a tip or two to the Weasley twins--the toe-rag deserves her punishment. 

“Either way, if they were caught, they could be facing expulsion,” he says sternly, or as severe as it gets with Padfoot laughing uncontrollably by his side. 

“Nah, that won’t happen,” he says finally. “Dumbledore wouldn’t allow it. And if the Minister heard the kind of education that woman’s giving that lot--” 

“The Minister approves her ways of teaching,” reminds coldly Remus. 

“Okay, okay. Please, let’s drop the subject.” 

Remus complies, since after all, they’ve discussed at long length this matter too during Sirius’ confinement days, and drops his head to resume reading. Sirius gets comfortable with his back against the shelves and just stares at him; Moony doesn’t even seem to notice his stare, as it was an usual occurrence back at Hogwarts. And so, he reads some more pages and makes a few more annotations, as if he were alone. But when he yawns, exhausted, Padfoot can’t let this go on any longer and takes a look at Remus’ watch. It's way too late for either of them to be still up; and so he simply leans forward to close Moony’s book. 

“Come on. That’s enough for today,” he says, taking the book off Remus’ lap. He summons the rest of the books Remus has consulted, or meant to, and places them neatly on a shelf too high for Moony to reach still sitting on the floor. “Leave it. They’ll still be here when you wake up.” 

Remus nods with a warm smile, scratching his arm again, rolling down the shirt’s sleeves and buttoning them on the wrists. Seeing how Sirius hasn’t even tried to stand up, he doesn’t either, getting comfortable against the opposite wall. They just stare at each other for some moments, relishing the simple fact that they’re able to. After that Halloween night, they never thought this moment would be possible. One never believed he’d survive Azkaban; the other, hoped the werewolf curse would have killed him by now. And yet, here they are, still standing, Moony and Padfoot together again after thirteen long and miserable years, against all odds. 

It doesn’t take Padfoot much time to go back into a very old and annoying habit.

“So, tell me,” he says all of a sudden, knocking his head to one side. “Dora?” 

Moony’s head drops to the ground, to avoid Padfoot seeing him blushing.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” replies him at once. Too fast, too defensive, knows Sirius. Even when he lies to everyone about his werewolf condition, he's terrible at lies.

“Come on, it can’t just be my imagination.” 

“Like I said--” 

“You have a big thing for her, don’t you?” 

“I--don’t--” 

“Hey, whenever have there been any secrets between us?” 

“I so not want to have this conversation right now,” scowls Remus. “Can I go back to my dorm now, please?” 

“You’re not getting away, Moony. And you realize all this your denial does nothing but confirm it, do you? Come on, Remus. Back at Hogwarts we always told each other anything.” 

“Trust me, I remember,” says the man, regardless of the burst of pain on his chest for their long past academic years. “Every day you came to us with a new crush or something.” 

“And yet you only told us about Hellen Sandoval and Becca Gallagher.” 

“Maybe because they were the only girls I ever had a crush on--?” 

“Hey, let me remind you, I had my first kiss at sixth grade,” replies Sirius. “And we’re forgetting the main issue.” 

“Oh, I know you haven’t. But you could drop it.”

“Not a chance, dear Moony,” laughs Sirius. Winking at him with that look and smirk he used to flash at Hogwarts and still gets the job done. The man sighs deeply, regretting too late not going to sleep when he should have. 

“Fine. I may have a tiny, little, unimportant, crush on that woman,” he whispers. But Padfoot’s reaction’s in no way as calmed as his own. 

“ _I KNEW IT_ ”, he yells, jumping towards him and kneeling by his side, dopey eyes blinking rapidly at Remus, obviously demanding more details. He sighs again, lamenting every word. 

“There’s nothing else to tell, Padfoot. I haven’t told her and I’m not going to.” 

“I dare you to tell me not even one good reason not to,” he orders. 

Remus looks at him right in the eye while he answers slowly but truthfully. “It’s inappropriate. It’s disgusting. It won’t be reciprocated. There’s a war coming in. It’s the last thing she should have on her mind. It’s the last thing _I_ should have on my mind. No--” 

“Woah, Moony, as usual, you’re overthinking things. Way too much,” interjects Sirius, hitting him on the arm to make him shut up. “Don’t you realize how she stares at you? The last time I saw such a dopey person at an Order meeting was James, drooling all over Lily.” 

While Sirius lists all the times and places where he claims he’s seen Dora checking Moony out, Remus just scoffs, shaking his head, knowing there’s nothing he can do or say to make him shut up now. Thankfully for him, there was only this other person who could shut Padfoot up for him--and that person appears at the right time. 

They hear light footsteps on the stairs and the two of them quit their babbling, hoping they weren’t talking too loud and managed to wake someone up. On his side, Sirius stands straighter and sticks his head out of the library’s door. He doesn’t seem surprised by whoever’s coming downstairs. 

“Hey, pup, in here,” says Padfoot. He swifts a few feet away from the door, so Harry can open it, still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. Greeting both Marauders with a nod of his head, the boy sits at the spot Remus leaves him beside Padfoot, with slow movements, still half asleep or too tired as well. 

“Night,” he yawns. As Sirius’ doing something else, Remus has to hide a chuckle. Despite spending a whole year at Hogwarts with him, he never met this side of Harry, the true self, in the middle of the night, when he’s barely awake and conscious. It’s always puzzling to fully know how a person really is--though he tries not to think about the fact that, had things gone smoothly, or at least, how they’d planned, he should have known everything about their Prongslet years ago. 

He doesn’t realize he was staring at the young boy till he sees a cup hovering right in front of his eyes. He takes it, surprised to notice another in both Harry and Sirius’ hands. The old Marauder’s distributed hot cocoa cups to the three of them. That’s probably what he was waiting for before going back to sleep for real. 

“I remember you wandering around quite some nights at Hogwarts, for some mischief or another,” says Remus, poking on Harry’s arm. “Hope you’re not planning to do the same here.” 

Harry tries to hide his head behind the cup, but it’s too late to prevent the two Marauders to see his face all red. 

“What were you talking about here this late?” he asks in return, looking only at his godfather. Remus looks at him warningly, ready to engage into a proper fight were he to say anything about Dora. But he can see in Padfoot’s eye he wasn’t going to. 

“Actually, about those DA classes you’re teaching,” he lies blatantly, but Harry doesn’t even notice. “We have some ideas that could help you all.” And though they haven’t discussed it tonight, they certainly can offer the boy some good suggestions for the classes, or how to avoid Umbridge’s radar. 

The three of them talk about it for about half an hour, proposing ideas and dismissing others that would simply not work. After thirty minutes or so, though, Remus feels how he’s dozing off all of a sudden, and Harry yawns again, not even trying to cover his exhaustion. Or, as Remus understands later, his exasperation. 

“It’s not fair that you keep doing this to me, Sirius,” he scowls, leaving the cup on the floor. 

“I only want you to get some hours of good sleep,” replies the man with a shy smile, standing up and pulling Harry on his feet. “Didn’t think it was a crime.” 

“Well, it is. You don’t have to treat me like a child,” whines Harry. But it’s quite the opposite, reflects Remus. He’s never had no-one to take care of him in his life; now that he’s met some real father figures--Arthur and Padfoot being only the first names on the list--he should allow them to take care of things and himself. But either way, Moony knows he’s never having the real childhood he should have had. 

“Thought that’d make me a responsible godfather.” 

“Come on, Padfoot, you’re nothing but,” laughs Remus, behind Harry, following the two of them up the stairs. They stop at Harry’s bedroom and Padfoot awkwardly leans on to hug him and kiss him on the hair. 

“Off to sleep,” he orders, opening the dorm’s room for him. Harry complies, closing the door behind him, only a little bit embarrassed. The two men stand in the hall till they’re sure Harry’s already in bed; and then Sirius turns to face Remus. “Do I have to boss you around too or carry you?” he demands. 

“I’ll go down peacefully, if you don’t mind,” replies Moony with a chuckle, entering his bedroom as well. 

Sirius stares at the door behind his best friend. By the amount of sleeping potion he’s poured into Harry’s and Remus’ cups, now the both of them will be able to sleep till morning. He wishes it could work on him, too--but he’d need an overdose to get any kind of effect from something as trivial as a sleeping potion. With a deep sigh, he climbs the stairs back to the dome, to Buckbeak, who hasn’t gotten any more sleep either, counting the minutes till dawn and he can distract himself either with cleaning duty or Order meetings. Anything to keep his mind away from the misery, memories and torture.


	43. Chapter 43

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> HP5. After the Floo-call between Harry, his godfather and Remus, the immediate reaction from the former Marauders after the conversation brings back very old and painful memories. Published separately under the title of "Nah, she didn't."

“Look, your father was the best friend I ever had and he was a good person. A lot of people are idiots at the age of fifteen. He grew out of it.”

When the Floo call ends, Sirius finds himself unable to speak, or move, or to do anything for that matter. He just stays there, knelt before the fireplace, vaguely aware of Remus’ presence beside him, shoulder to shoulder, his eyes fixed into the ashes of the extinguished fire. Oh, no. 

“I’ll get the kettle on,” says Remus, standing abruptly. 

Sirius can’t follow him straight away. He stays there in front of the fireplace for a few more minutes, watching Remus prepare the tea, busying himself in an attempt to forget everything that’s been said in the last five minutes. Sirius wishes to do the same, but the conversation has almost given him a stroke. 

Not because of Harry doubting if Lils ever truly loved James: Sirius has an ever-ending list of the places he found them snogging at Hogwarts while Head Boy and Girl duties, or he could have recited the sonnet James wrote for Lily in sixth year, or his wedding proposal, or even his wedding toast, all of them proof of their truly and undeniable love for each other. It’s talking about James in the good old days at Hogwarts. Young, naïve and stupid, yes, can’t possibly deny that, but also brothers and pranksters. What he’s just said to Harry was simply the truth about James _Fleamont_ Potter--he grins against his will at that stupid middle name. 

With a great strength of will Sirius stands up and finds himself a seat. Few minutes in, Remus turns with a kettle and two cups in a tray and puts it down at the table, before sitting down in front of Sirius. They don’t share a single look until some beats later, when Remus doesn’t even care to reach for the steaming kettle. 

“Maybe something--?” 

“Please,” begs Remus, who’d have made that suggestion sooner or later. 

Now it is Sirius who leaves abruptly, almost spilling the kettle in his eagerness. From a cupboard of the dining room, safely away from any guest or visitor, he takes one of the last bottles of Rum. His dear mother used to drink it as if it was water, and since he’s been living in Grimmauld Place again he’s inherited that habit twice as bad. Today even more than ever before. 

He fills both cups before sitting down in front of Remus, both of them silent and deep in their thoughts while drinking slowly, much slower that Sirius’d have wanted to. To their friend and memories. 

They don’t usually talk about James. Or Lily. Even though they’ve been years apart, they really don’t have that much to catch up with. They don’t talk about the Marauders. They don’t say out loud they’re the last ones left, because Peter, Wormtail, he--he’s a traitor. He’s as good as dead to Sirius. 

It’d too painful. Sirius treasures years of happy memories of them four--then again, all five of them--both at Hogwarts and later. The pranks, the laughter, the animagi research, the Map, the full moons, the Order. But all of that leads to the eventual treason, the murder of the Potters, the boy who lived, Sirius’ wrongfully imprisonment in Azkaban, Peter’s flight, Remus’ utter loneliness for one hundred and forty-four full moons. It’s a package deal. The golden days of the Marauders at Hogwarts and the complete despair since that fateful night of 1981. It’s been 14 years and he’s learnt to live with that--had to--but contractually obliged to never speak of it again or he’d succumb to despair. 

Yes, silence is better. 

For the first ten minutes. 

Then all of a sudden Remus just bursts out laughing, leaning against the table. 

“What?” asks Sirius, smile spreading across his face without even knowing. 

Crying from laughter, the other Marauder has a hard time finding words between breaths. Sirius is giggling before his friend can start a sentence, even without knowing what is Remus remembering exactly. 

“Remember that time, in sixth year--”

“First night?” Sirius finishes for him, catching up on his friend’s line of thinking. With a nod from Remus, he doesn’t need anything else to know exactly what he means and joins the burst of laughter. “Of course I do. James and I hexed the Sorting Hat to only speak Gobbledegook. They couldn’t fix it till next day--first time in the history of Hogwarts that the Sorting was ever delayed.” 

“Broke the records of earliest detentions in the history of Hogwarts, too,” adds Remus. 

“Well, it was worth it. You don’t know how much time James and I had spent that summer rummaging the Potter’s library searching for that spell.” Which was only possible since it was the summer he ran away from home and stayed at the Potters, while recovering, the last few weeks before term started again. 

“I do, actually. You never stopped bragging about that,” scowls Moony, remembering some very old conversations throughout that first month of semester. 

“Like I said, worth every second of detention. Had to lie to James’ parents, though. Told them we wanted to prepare for classes, since it was OWL exams year.”

“Which is probably why you never once opened a book that year.” 

“If I hadn’t, could I have achieved Outstanding in most of the OWLs I took?” 

“Hurts me to say this, but probably, yes,” sighs Moony in defeat. 

“I have to say James also outstanded that time he asked Lily out in fifth year--” 

Half an hour later, they are still laughing hysterically at the kitchen table, with a little help of the bottle of alcohol--which, in all honesty, it’s emptied faster than the memories themselves. They laugh until they cry, reminiscing some of their pranks and their teachers and school-mates reactions--some praised them now and then, Dumbledore more than often--the trial and error of their animagi research, their prank effectivity improvement thanks to the Map, teasing James for his attempts at flirting, and teasing him even more when he finally got his first date with Lily; or after leaving Hogwarts, searching for an apartment, and then finding out Lily’s pregnancy and freaking out for every one of her cravings, breakfast, lunch and dinner at the Potters, Christmas at the Potters, taking Harry with Sirius’ motorbike, introducing themselves to Harry as Padfoot or Prongs, spoiling that kid rotten, or babysitting him when James and Lily really needed a night off. 

Eventually they settle down, from laughing hysterically to simple giggling, catching their breath. 

“ _Oh, the good days,_ ” murmurs Sirius, drying tears from his eyes and cheeks. 

“Good days indeed,” agrees Remus in front of him. “Once a Marauder, always a Marauder.” 

“Indeed,” agrees Sirius, drinking the last sip of Rum. 

And then the reality hits Sirius again, harder than ever. During this brief moment of happiness and reminiscence they’ve barely mentioned Wormtail, the Order of the Phoenix, the war, Voldemort, or anything dark or remotely unhappy that happened after Hogwarts. Sirius can hardly understand how is he able to do that, talk about James so easily, first with Harry, now with Moony, laughing, without a slight remorse or guilt. As if nothing ever happened. When it’s completely his fault that James and Lily aren’t here too, laughing with them, remembering their years at Hogwarts with a bitterness of laughter and nostalgia. 

How he’s to blame that Remus was completely alone for twelve years, almost resourceless, getting fired of every job he got because no-one would hire a werewolf permanently, spending all alone every full moon since then, getting more scarred for life because nor Padfoot, Prongs or Wormtail where there stop him from hurting himself --he’s briefly seen some new scars in Remus’ arms that’ll never heal. 

Or how it is his fault that James and Lily’s son--his godson, for heaven’s sake--was an orphan and had no-one at the age of one-year-old, with the scar of that event forged forever in his forehead, and had to grew up without his parents, or a caring family for that matter, and never knew anything of the magic world or his parents’ sacrifice and valor until he was eleven, or never again has trusted any adult figure in a dangerous situation. Not so friendly reminders that have never left him, but instead harbored him, everyday for twelve years while in Azkaban. 

The most remarkable thing is, despite everything Harry’s suffered, he’s grown to be the kind, honest and loving young man his parents wanted him to be. He could be doing so much worse and yet he’s a brave and brilliant boy. He’ll turn out to be a wonderful man, just like his father, and a great husband and father too. Sirius loves him. Not because he’s James and Lily’s son, but now that he’s actually met and interacted with the boy, only fourteen years later than it should have been, he truly and genuinely loves his Prongslet and cares about him. 

“We must tell him,” he decides, his voice hoarse from the overwhelming feelings and trying to choke back the tears. “Harry. We must find time to tell him everything he should know about James and Lily. How they were amazing wizards. Their disastrous first date at Hogsmeade. How in seventh year Lily used to stay up late in our dorm, ended up asleep and James let her his bed, forcing me to share mine with him. Their fights for the perfect apartment for raising a family. He must know who they were, he can’t forget them, he--”

“We will,” stops Remus, holding firmly, but kindly, Sirius’ arm. “We’ll do it, Sirius. We’ll find a time. They won’t be forgotten. It won’t happen, I promise you that.”

“Before anything happens to us,” insists Sirius. 

“Nothing’s going to happen,” says Remus with his soft voice. 

“That’s what we used to say at Hogwarts. That we all’d survive the war. And look what’s happened: two dead, one traitor, one's spent thirteen years in what can't even be called a prison and the last--"

"You don't need to finish that sentence," begs Remus; doesn't need the reminder or to put an adjective to his condition. A long list could be used, but none of it can be said publicly. Padfoots understands it and nods once, dropping his head, resuming his earlier statement. 

" _He needs to know._ ” 

That he once knew love. That he once had a caring family who loved him and made him laugh and fed him and sang him to bed and wanted to be with him more than anything. Just--they wanted more for him to be safe. The same way as they swore to their mischief-makings at Hogwarts, they all swore they’d protect Harry at all costs. That’s the only reason why James’d go into hiding while everyone else fought the battle against Voldemort. He and Lily gave their lives for Harry. Sirius’d do the same in a heartbeat today, and he knows Remus’d do it gladly too--if that meant Harry would have a life in a world in peace. 

“ _Soon._ ”


	44. Chapter 44

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Golden Trio after the events at the Ministry of Magic in 5th year (after Sirius's death).

“Evening to each and everyone of you gathered here today. Another year comes to an end and I find myself again in the position of asking forgiveness to all of you. It’s been a rowdy and uncontrolled year and I and only I take responsibility for not putting a stop to it when I should have, but, worst of any of it, for leaving the school when the youngest of you most needed help and support. I can only excuse my actions saying that being arrested and taken to Azkaban prison when shadows of suspicion and mistrust hovered over me and this school was, in my opinion, the worst thing that could ever happen to the students that would be left behind. I thought there were still competent teachers to whom you could have relied on; certainly I was wrong, if two of our students have fled their nest.” 

Students from the four houses snicker and look over at the Gryffindor table, where two certain twins red-heads are missing. Even Ron looks at the spot where his two older brothers used to sit, with a nostalgic face, letting out a chuckle. But all evidence of humor disappears at once when he gets a glimpse of Hermione’s face: exasperated, stern, and he avoids acknowledging any other feeling, as he avoids her gaze to look at the other empty seat by their side. Harry’s refused to come to dinner. Though he’d warn them, it still comes as a surprise. 

For once, Hermione isn’t paying much attention to the Headmaster’s end of term speech. She couldn’t, if one of her best friends is missing the feast. If said friend had suffered a terrible loss a few days before, after a fight against Death Eaters at the Ministry of Magic. No words from the Headmaster could explain what happened, could make it better, nor could reasonably justify what went down there. So today, the Headmaster’s speech lacks of importance. He couldn’t either explain his actions throughout the academic year, or his absence at the Department of Mysteries. 

She tells herself to sit tight until Dumbledore finishes the speech; and when the food appears and everyone digs in eagerly, a thousand chat rising from all around the Dining Hall, Hermione kicks Ron’s arm when she sees he’s reaching for his food too. 

“Aw! What was that for?!” he demands. 

“Honestly, Ronald, how can you eat in this situation?!” 

“If you’re talking about Harry, please calm down a bit before judging,” begs the boy, grabbing from under the table his schoolbag and starting filling it up with some food from the table. “I’m not having the feast without him.” 

“Oh,” says Hermione, staring at him in shocking disbelief. 

She couldn’t have enjoyed the feast without Harry either, but she at least could have thought about this earlier too. After some beats, she helps Ronald, providing a couple spells so the food doesn’t stain the bag and the food doesn’t perish, until the bag is practically full. At that point they raise, Ron hangs the bag from his shoulder and head towards the exit. They notice the scrutiny of some of their friends, and Ginny and Neville nod at them, proving acknowledgement and understanding--the two of them will be upstairs soon enough to offer moral support to Harry. Down the table, Seamus, Dean, Fred, Weasley and even Nigel Wolpert--news have travelled fast amongst the DA members--all look up at them in silent pity and commiseration, pleading without words for them to help Harry. He’s given them so much this last year and so much has been taken from the poor lad, they all feel crestfallen and miserable being able to do nothing in return for Harry. 

They stop before getting to the Gryffindor Tower, though not sure why, because there isn’t anything they want to say--there is nothing to say, really. Hermione says the password and they’re granted access, though the Fat Lady offers them a snarky comment they didn’t need at the moment. 

“The Feast finished so early?” 

“Oh, shut up,” replies Hermione, climbing into the Tower. 

They’d expected to find Harry in the dormitory, but they hear voices too close to be coming from the fifth room. And when they step into the Common Room, they see Harry’s head propping from the other side of the couch, bowed towards the fireplace. They don’t need to see anything else to know he’s using the recently reinstalled Floo-call communications. He hasn’t realized they’ve entered; he’s too immersed talking to Prof. Lupin. 

“I’m so sorry,” says Harry all of a sudden, and instead of announcing their presence, Hermione and Ron put a hand on their mouths. “I’m sorry you lost Sirius.” 

“You have nothing to be sorry about,” replies a polite, yet contrite, Lupin. “You didn’t kill Sirius, for Merlin’s beard.” 

“But he wouldn’t have shown at the Department of Mysteries hadn’t it been for--” 

“He probably would have found any other excuse to get out of this house, had you been reckless or not, Harry,” interjects Lupin. “He couldn’t have coped being here for much longer. Yes, he left to save you, but that only meant no-one could have possibly stopped him from leaving, despite Dumbledore's orders and against all rational reason. I’m certain he’s not regretting his actions for a minute; and you shouldn't blame yourself for what happened.” 

“He died saving me.” 

“Back in the day, we all vowed we’d always try to protect you--even if it was a life-sentence promise. Excluding Wormtail, we all made it wholeheartedly. Can’t really blame your godfather for doing what he pledged he’d do for once, after not being by your side for more than twelve years.” 

“My father, my mother, my godfather... Everyone’s dying for me,” counts Harry. “Dumbledore fought Voldemort for me and it certainly will not be the last time. Mr. Weasley almost died because of me.” 

“You saved him, Harry,” remembers Lupin fondly. 

“What I mean is that this situation lingers, everyone close to me will be dead.” 

“Don’t think like that, please--” 

“Well, it’s true.” 

“You’re saying it as if we didn’t have a choice,” chuckles Lupin, a humorless laughter. “As if we weren’t witches and wizards skilled at dueling, or as if someone forced us to go to the front--we do it because we want it, because of what we believe.” 

“That’s my point! I don’t want you to fight. I don’t want you to endanger your lives any further.” 

“And protecting you and all your friends the best way we can is the whole point of being a member of the Order of the Phoenix. If we weren’t, you and your classmates probably would be dead thanks to that pull at the Ministry. Harry, don’t push away the people who stand by your side and can help you.” 

“How can’t I, if it’ll end up killing them all? How can I live with myself if my parents and all of their friends died protecting me? All of your friends.” 

“Harry. The only thing certain in life is that we’re all going to die, eventually, of course, but we don’t know if it’ll be tomorrow because of Voldemort or twenty years from now because of cancer. You can’t just tell people what to do because you’re afraid for them. Let them make their own choices, take their chances. Plus, their skills might even surprise you. Being honest, you’re not ready to engage this fight on your own. At least let others help you. You can’t shield everybody--there’s a War coming on. What will you do, put everyone on house arrest? Fight by yourself?” 

“No, of course, but--” 

“Then let go,” suggests Lupin.“It’s a terrible loss for all of us--but I’m glad you contacted me, Harry, so I can tell you that you can’t give in that pain and misery. When your parents died you were taken away from your real guardians. Wouldn't want that to happen again, now of all times. Above all, don’t forget, ever, to trust your closest ones. Not doing so brought us all misery, pain and loss in the past--don’t do the same. Don’t repeat those mistakes, Harry; be brave. We’re strong as long as we’re united.” 

Harry might be too hurt and bewildered, but Hermione isn’t, and despite the warm worms their former teacher’s addressing Harry, she can see in his eyes an unfathomable grief and unspeakable suffering that Remus just can’t let the boy get a glimpse of. He could never tell him, or anyone else for that matter, how much he’s hurting, how his world’s turned upside down in an irretrievable way, once more, how all of his former friends--all of them dead now except from one traitor--lives and all of their plans and hopes have gone horribly wrong, unfinished to the last of them. Still, he makes his best efforts to keep an peaceful face and an even voice because Harry needs it, trying to make up for all those times he should have helped him before and wasn’t able to. 

“You can’t change the past and you probably can’t prevent half the things that will soon happen. So welcome that and move on, _with help from your closest ones_. Rely and lean on your friends. Accept their help and comfort. They certainly seem up to it,” he adds, nodding in the direction of Hermione and Ron. Harry’s head shoots up. He doesn’t seem that all angry to discover they were spying on his conversation--he’s still too angry and despaired due to Sirius’ death. 

“Take good care of him,” begs Lupin, receiving a nod from Hermione and Ron, because he won’t be able to hold on much longer, even for Harry’s sake. . “I’ll leave you three. Rely on your friends, Harry--is the best we can do at this point.” 

His face disappears from the flames, which soon die into ashes. The three of them stay in silence for some long seconds, until Harry, sniffing back some tears and the strange knot on his throat, stands up and sits on the couch. Ron and Hermione slowly sit down on both of his sides, thanking Merlin Harry doesn’t push them away. And despite everything, they’re glad they could hear his conversation with Lupin--Harry’s hardly spoken to them both since the fight at the Department of Mysteries. 

They shift a bit uncomfortable on the couch, looking at no-one and nothing special, wondering to themselves if they should talk or let it go. But before any of them says anything, Ron offers Harry his schoolbag, showing their own feast at hand. Harry scoffs as Hermione sets the table closest to them, preparing the cutlery, glasses and food, and slowly, growing cozy, start eating. Now that they know what Harry’s suffering, they don’t have to force him to talk to them again. 

“We’re sorry,” says Ron when they’re done eating. “Cho and Luna and the rest of the DA send their apologies and condolences too. We know it has to be tough. Sirius was the first death of the Second War and--” 

“He’s not,” interjects Harry in a low murmur, without raising his head. 

“What?” 

“Sirius wasn’t the first victim of this Second War. Cedric, last year, was the first. He died because of Voldemort.” 

Ron and Hermione, taking advantage of Harry’s dropped head, share a brief and preoccupied look. Two years in a row Harry’s witnessed two close deaths in the hands of Voldemort or his footmen. Who knows how long that list of victims will end up being. 

“Either way,” says Hermione, resting a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “We won’t stop fighting because there’s danger ahead. That’s exactly why we should fight, isn’t it? To stop Voldemort and the Death Eaters. That was the aim of Dumbledore’s Army and the Order of the Phoenix.” 

“I know, I know,” he whispers, nodding with his head. 

“Will you stand down?” 

“Of course not!” assures an outraged Harry, his head shooting up in the air, to see if Ron was joking. 

But his two friends smile at him, having expected this exact reaction from him. 

“Then we’re not either,” says Hermione, squeezing his hand while Ron punches jokingly Harry’s contrary arm. Just two affectionate gestures proving they’re also in this till the end, whatever that may be.

“Please, remember that you’re not alone.”


	45. Chapter 45

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Events that happened at Hogwarts on that fateful night on June 30th, 1997, from the moment Harry leaves the dorms and Hermione and Ron have to summon the DA members.

Ron and Hermione stand speechless in the dormitory as Harry passes by them and leaves hurriedly before they can utter a single protest. Staring into each other’s eye in bewilderment, Ron still holding the old sock with the Felix potion in it and Hermione and Marauder’s Map, it must be a couple of minutes later until they land back on Earth, realizing it’s too late to do anything but to follow Harry’s instructions and hope for the best. 

Almost in a daze, acting only because there’s this list of things that it’s imperative that they do, Hermione grabs the old sock, takes the potion out and drinks the smallest of sips, handing it back to Ronald afterwards, before heading for the Common Room. For some reason, just wishing it were all just a nightmare, they look around for Harry, who’s obviously long gone, but find Ginny instead and they signal for her to meet them in a corner of the room. 

“Hey, is everything alright?” she asks concerned upon seeing their gloomy moods. “Where’s Harry?” 

“We’re not sure,” confesses Ron. 

“He’s safe, though,” Hermione calms down immediately, “he’s with Dumbledore.” 

Despite her best intentions, Ginny doesn’t look at all reassured by her words. 

“He’s left. With Dumbledore. _When? Where?!_ ” she demands, just a bit frenzied. Reasonably so, probably; Hermione and Ron might freak out too if they didn’t have more important issues at hand. Or maybe it’s just Felix telling them what to do. 

“Ginny, if we knew something else, we’d tell you, but we don’t, except for the fact that something terrible could happen tonight,” stresses Hermione, focusing the girl at once. 

“What can I do?” asks her, even before she presses for more intel. 

“First, drink this,” orders Hermione, handing her the almost empty flask. 

Ginny takes it and eyes it carefully. “Please tell me it’s not booze.” 

“Do you honestly think--?” 

“It’s Felix Felicis,” interjects Hermione hurriedly. “Harry wants you to take it--he wants you safe too.” 

Upon hearing Harry’s name, Ginny doesn’t hesitate for a second longer and swallows the remaining contents of the flask in one sip. 

“Alright, what’s the plan?” 

“We need back up,” says Hermione. 

She reaches for her pocket, taking a couple of coins--Ginny and Ron recognize at once the coins they used last year for the DA’s meetings. She writes a simple and clear enough message: meeting in 15, Great Hall. They look around again and see in turn how every Gryffindor member of the DA--Neville, Dean, Colin and Dennis, Seamus, Katie, Lavender, Nigel, Rionach, Alicia, Padma and Parvatil--raise their heads and locate them three on the corner. 

They all nod once. And that’s all they needed. 

Dropping whatever they were doing at the moment, however important that might be, they all raise from their seats, couches and armchairs and, upon Hermione’s signal, dash through the portrait’s without asking questions. 

“It’s important; we need to hurry.” 

That’s actually the only explanation, of some sorts, they get from Hermione, as she’s sprinting through the corridors, panting slightly, leading the group. They all follow her in silence, not bothering to ask for details when they know it’d just be a waste of precious time. Ronald’s the first one to break the silence treatment, by a scowl, after checking the Map. 

“McGonagall’s coming our way,” he informs, stopping in the middle of the hall. 

Hermione spins towards the rest of the group without barely stopping for two seconds straight. 

“You head to the Great Hall; we’ll be there shortly.” 

No-one even considers refusing her words nor staying with them; everyone except Ginny nods and passes by them on the run, taking a detour to get to the Great Hall. Thankfully, they’re long gone before their Head of House appears from the opposite corner, stumbling upon the three of them with an astonished look. 

“What’s all this?” she demands, looking straight into Hermione and Ginny’s presences, apparently more upset for seeing them both out here than Ronald. “It’s not like my lions to be outside the Common Room after curfew. Especially on a night like today; we gave specific orders to all Prefects to--” 

Maybe for the first time in her life, Hermione dares to interject her Head of House. 

“Professor, we’re aware, we know Dumbledore’s not in the castle and--” 

“Miss Granger,” exclaims Minnie, dismay clear in her voice, “I don’t know how in the world--” 

Ron’s the one who interjects her this time. 

“You see it’s not that much of a secret, Professor, so it is possible that such critical information is known by far more people than you think.” 

“I honestly can’t understand--” 

And to reinforce the triad, Ginny steps forward as well. “Please, Professor. Dumbledore’s Army is meeting and if necessary, preparing for battle.” 

“ _No-one will do anything of that--_ ” 

“You can waste your time and resources trying to track us all down, all thirty-five of us, or rather putting them all in good use and alert everyone on guard duty--something will happen tonight, for certain. Wouldn’t hurt to warn the Order too.” 

“Why, Miss Weasley. . . You should know necessary precautions have been taken to prepare for any event--” 

“Call for more back-up, then!” demands Hermione. 

“The Headmaster isn’t here to explain everything or give this orders himself, so you better trust us for now, Professor,” adds Ginny. “And hurry, please.” 

They’re already running away from the Deputy Headmistress, knowing for some reason she won’t try to stop them nor put them under detention. Ron’s yell’s the last thing the distraught and confused woman hears from them: 

“We’ll contact you if we find out anything!” 

Leaving her as astonished as Harry left them not twenty minutes ago, they turn the corner and start running again, knowing they need to hurry too. Only a small portion of their brains registers the fact that they just got away with detention, from their own Head of House; without a doubt, Felix Felicis did all the right talking. But this is great, this way they can trust the Order will be in the castle too. If something happens, they should be ready. 

A couple floors down and some more turns and they’re finally at the Great Hall--a safer place to meet rather than the Room of Requirements, if what Harry’s been claiming all year is close to the truth. 

At first they don’t see anyone and it’s just the three of them panting in the middle of the Hall, fearing if a Prefect, a teacher or worse, a Death Eater, has got to them; until slowly, people come out of their hideouts, wands at the ready. Behind the armors, the staircases, the doors. It’s almost a full house; most of them haven’t got rid of the DA’s coins just yet, maybe waiting for this exact opportunity. 

Either way, just the thirty of them in the middle of the gigantic Great Hall, just the DA attempting to protect and save the rest of students in this humongous Castle, it makes them skip a beat or two. The cosiness and peacefulness of this too familiar place, the warmth out of familiarity and the lit torches everywhere, it’s just strangely eerie bearing in mind what could take place at any moment now. That saving this place they all love and share with so many loved ones could rest on their shoulders. 

“Thank you all for coming,” greets Hermione, eyeing everyone present, though wishing they’d skip unnecessary formalities. 

“Not at all,” respond some of them. 

“We feared you’d forgotten all about us.” 

“Quite the opposite, really,” replies Ron. “No reason to get us all in detention again--until now.” 

“Great, then, let’s get some action,” says Ernie, stretching his arms, his wand at the ready. 

“We missed this, being honest.” 

“The illegality of it all and doing the right thing despite everything. . .”

“Hey, this isn’t a picnic,” scowls Ginny. 

“That’s what they said,” says Zachary, signaling vaguely to everyone from Gryffindor, “that something big is happening tonight. How certain are you?” 

“Pretty certain,” says Ginny. 

But it’s Hermione who explains further, just to avoid any unnecessary discussions with the team members--no-one usually tries to refute her and tonight won’t be the first time, whether it’s because of her sharp manners and authority or Felix. 

“Dumbledore’s left the castle tonight and we have under pretty good authority that a mass break-in at Hogwarts has been on the table for some time.” 

“And you only thought to contact us _now?_ ” 

“Yes,” replies Hermione coldly, hoping to avoid more ranting. 

“ _We need Harry,_ ” whimpers Terry, panicking a bit, though he’d never confess so to anyone. 

Everyone seems to agree to that statement--and Hermione, Ginny and Ron think so too, in all honesty--but that’s just not possible tonight. 

“He’s gone too,” snaps Ginny, in a way that clearly indicates no-one should ask further questions about Harry’s whereabouts too. “We’re on our own tonight. Think we can handle it?” 

“Hell, yeah!” exclaims everyone, raising their fists to the air, clapping each other’s shoulders. 

They’ve raised their voices too much; Hermione hushes them all and, just to be safe, they scatter around to hide, just in case. After some long seconds, they don’t hear anyone ringing the alarm on them or someone approaching the Great Hall and so they meet in a big circle again, resuming their conversation in frantic whispers. 

“An attack is happening tonight,” Seamus sums ups. “Are you in or are you out?” 

The question seems to outrage the few members who were merely asking for a little bit more information. 

“We can handle this, comes Hell or high water,” vows Cho Chang on everyone’s behalf, a statement that gets the excited approval of every DA member, promising to kick some Death Eater’s ass, to protect every other student on the castle and not to fail the Headmaster again. In the end, they have to shush everybody, reminding them this is still undercover work. 

“Alright, what’s the plan?” demands Justin. 

“Unfortunately, we have no idea on how they plan to break in,” confesses Hermione. 

“Please, certainly there are only a number of ways to get to Hogwarts boundaries,” says Michael, with a roll of his eyes. 

“Sure, we can cover them all and so no-one will--” 

“No, we cannot,” replies Luna sternly, interjecting Hannah only slightly exasperated. “For one, how would you prevent people getting to the castle flying on broomsticks?” 

“The stunning spell, for one, comes to mind.” 

“Aiming at a person in the middle of the sky at a hundred yard height,” scowls Ron. “Yeah, can’t think how that wouldn’t work out.” 

“Anyhow, we don’t have the time or the personnel to cover every entrance to the castle,” Ginny sums up, raising her voice authoritative as to put a stop to all the bickering. 

“Plus, someone from the inside might be on their side too,” adds Ron. He’s certain it’s Felix talking now; rationally he’d never have given this worrying piece of information that could take aback some of their fellow students. But they need to know everything, apparently. “So even if we could cover most usual ways in, they might think of an unconventional passageway in.” 

“And we’ll leave this here and not discuss the whole plan over tea and jam,” orders Hermione sternly. 

“Then why are we here?” demands Neville. 

“Our priority is to protect the Castle and our fellow students at best; not necessarily end up in a battle.” 

“Hey, that was the main reason why we created the DA, wasn’t it?” 

“Last year our enemy was Umbridge; things have changed a little bit since then,” scoffs Ginny. 

“We are willing to fight!” exclaims Goldstein. 

“I’m all for it,” confirms Earnie. 

“You might just get what you’re asking for,” sighs Hermione, still unsure if this is a good idea. Probably not, she reckons, but she knows that they need every last volunteer. “Okay, listen up. We’ll have to split up and cover as much field as possible.” 

She unfolds the Map in front of everybody and assigns in groups of at least two people strategic points of the castle. Inadvertently, she pinpoints for herself and Luna the area nearby Snape’s office; and to Neville, Ron and Ginny, the Room of Requirement. It’s best, after all, if the two hotspots for tonight are covered by people who are under the effects of the Felix Felicis; and two people under its effects might be able to protect Neville as well. 

No-one speaks against her ideas or distribution--they all know her reasoning is usually on point. 

“Alright, couple more things: at the slightest sign of trouble, or even if you see something remotely suspicious, you warn everybody through the coins, understood?” she indicates. 

“Take any unnecessary precautions,” adds Ginny. “Tonight can be truly dangerous.” 

“I’m forced to say don’t trust anybody--Prefect, staff or friend of yours,” continues Ronald. “We don’t know who the spy is. Or if it’s more than one person.” 

“So keep an eye on everything and don’t be noticed,” Seamus sums up. “I think we got it.” 

“Okay, then let’s go,” orders Hermione, folding the Map and handing it back to Ronald, warning him with a stern look not to make a fuss about the decision and that he better not lose the Map. 

“Be careful,” begs Ginny as some of the members are leaving already, climbing up the stairs. 

“And good luck,” adds Luna, concern tainting her voice. 

Ron, Neville and Ginny stand in the Great Hall as everyone leaves, trying not to think about what their classmates and comrades might be facing within minutes or hours, the first one checking something on the Map. 

“Uh-uh,” he scowls all of a sudden. 

Ginny closes her eyes in fright and despair; she didn’t want to hear such beautiful and charming words seconds after the mission has officially started. 

“Something gone south already?” she scowls. 

“Nothing, I think,” replies her sibling. His lack of conviction only irritate Neville and Ginny, who get closer and stare at the Map over his shoulders. “Yet. I’m afraid Harry was right. Malfoy’s out of bed too.” 

“Guess not many students are getting their beautiful sleep tonight,” scoffs Ginny, eyeing with venomous glare at the moving dots marked with the name ‘Draco Malfoy’, which are leaving the Slytherin’s Common Room, down at the dungeons. For now, it is impossible to figure out where he’s headed for. 

“Malfoy?” repeats an incredulous Neville. “He’s the one helping Death Eaters into the Castle? Get out of here.” 

“Well, give me another reason why he should be out of his Common Room this late, tonight,” begs Ron. 

“Okay, less talking and more acting,” orders Ginny, leading a race climbing up the stairs, “or else we’ll be the useless ones in the DA. If we could stop him in time. . .”

“We might just be lucky,” whispers Neville. 

Ginny and Ron share a hurt look. If they could, they would have given a sip of Felix Felicis to every member of the DA and so this whole mission might turn out alright; but she didn’t even think about it when Hermione and her brother ordered her to drink the remaining potion. 

And it seems this factor leads to a not-so-lucky evening for them all. They don’t make it in time to stop Draco. When they’re still one floor below the Room of Requirements, Ronald states that they’re just too late in a scowl, after checking the Map once more. They don’t stop to confirm it this time; Draco Malfoy’s tag has disappeared from the Map; and the reason isn’t because he got out of Hogwarts grounds. 

“Come on,” stresses Ginny, panting. 

Though they sprint as much as they can the remaining minutes, the outcome is as Ronald predicted. No-one’s in the corridor and the entrance to the Room of Requirement is sealed to them. No matter what they do or try, the passageway just won’t open for them--obviously it’s following the current user’s wishes and demands, which include no entrance from anybody. 

“What now?!” asks Neville in despair, kicking the stone wall. 

“Warn the others; we couldn’t stop Draco, so the plan, whatever it is, is on,” orders Ginny, without losing her temper, though she’s as pale as Neville and Ron themselves. She’s still staring in anger at the stone wall that’s supposed to give access to the Room of Requirement, scolding at her, ordering uselessly to open for them. 

“There will be a fight tonight,” she sums up in the end, not at all convinced. 

“Bring it on,” scowls Ron, and for some reason, his sibling and Neville couldn’t say if he was being sarcastic or not. 

“I’m going to ask them to come here as well,” suggests Neville, already starting to write down the message on the coin, to be stopped physically by Ron and verbally by Ginny. 

“No, they should keep watching over things,” says she. “Whatever Draco’s planning inside the Room, it might not be the way in to the Castle, so we better not waste our resources. For now, we keep guard,” she orders. “Whoever, whatever comes out of this Room, doesn’t get past us, understood?” 

“Sure thing,” approve Ron and Neville at the same time, the same fierce and tenacity as Ginny in their voices and dispositions. 

“Ron, are--?” 

“They seem to be fine,” replies him, who’s been staring at the Map ever since he gave up on entering the Room, way earlier than his two companions. “I see no-one except us, the Staff and Lupin, Bill and Nymphadora.” 

“Remember them from the Order of the Phoenix?” Ginny asks Neville upon seeing his brief frowned eyebrows. “They’re on our side.” 

Whether the boy remembers the members or the organization or not, Neville doesn’t ask any further questions. Knowing what their allegiances are is more than what he needs to know right now; as usual, the mission ahead comes first. 

“No stranger for now,” confirms Ron, checking the castle one last time before folding the Map once and for all. “No Death Eaters in the school just yet.” 

“So we can only wait?” asks Neville, a bit dismayed despite everything. 

“For now, it’d seem so,” says Ginny, painstakingly. “I know, Neville; it’s tough.” 

That’s the understatement of the year--sit tight till all hell breaks loose and it’s too late. A prospect at all appealing to any of them, as they distribute strategically around the corridors surrounding the Room of Requirements, hoping to cover every possible way out until Draco dares to come out. Whereas wishing internally not to run into any real trouble, or at best, not to be fatally injured in the midst of it all, they can only hope to be fast--and skilled--enough when the time comes. 

They pick their hiding places--behind an armor, under a windowsill, behind a column--and vow not to budge from their spots, however uncomfortable their positions might be, or however cold they might get, exposed to the chilly night breeze. Their only movements are meant to check the message they receive from the DA coins, reports from the other members around the castle--none of them, for now, reporting any bad news. 

Until the eerie, frightening quiet is broken by a low rummage. Neville, Ginny and Ron look up at each other, confirming their own thoughts. If they hadn’t used before the Room of Requirements they wouldn’t have recognized it, but they’re sure now--that sound is some wall transforming into a way out.

 They must find it--and stop anyone who comes out. It’s crucial. 

A task that’d certainly be easier if it wasn’t pitched dark all of a sudden. The torches extinguish, a dark, thick, black cloud hovers above them and all around them--not even the moon penetrates this darkness in the slightest. 

“What the--?” scowls Neville, coming out of his hiding spot, because it doesn’t make a difference whether he keeps crouched on the floor or not--he can’t see a thing and, at the same time, no-one will be able to see him in the corridor. “Guys--?”

“Who’s there?!” demands a man sharply, whom Neville can’t see. 

The voice most definitely didn’t belong to Ron and because of that realization, Neville drops to the ground, wand at the ready, without leaving his guarding spot. He hears steps and an argument--but doesn’t see anyone. 

“LUMOS MAXIMA!!” 

Ginny’s cast the spell at the same exact moment he was pondering to use it. He waits for the bright light to break the darkness--except, it doesn’t appear. He casts it too and hears Ronald give it a try, as the girl repeats the enchantment in surprise, but all their efforts are ineffective. 

In the meantime, darkness seems to be more crowded by the second. 

“What the hell’s going on?” demands someone. 

“Problems.” 

“Draco, what on Earth--” 

“This was your long-planned idea? Genius.” 

“It’s no-one we need to worry about,” Draco’s voice the only one he recognizes, amongst a group of at least, a dozen Death Eaters. “Come on, let’s go, this way--” 

“Stupefy!” yells, Neville figures, Ronald. 

The blue and red sparks shine but at one point they change direction to hit one of the walls. 

“That way!” scowls an adult man’s voice. 

Red sparks shoot towards the end of the hallway, to hit something and redirect themselves--a window’s glass shatters, though they only hear the noise. It’s obvious everyone’s casting protective shields around the place; in the midst of this darkness, it’s suicidal to try to engage a fight against Death Eaters, doing it blindly. 

Ginny and Ron, however, seem willing to try--even when Harry nor Dumbledore would never approve this--as more and more Death Eaters come out of the Room of Requirements and join the fight. Neville, on the other hand, stands in the middle of the opposite hallway, wand at the ready, scarcely missing the spells that could hit him after bouncing on the protective shields and head his way. 

“KILL THEM! Kill them all! We can’t let witnesses live.”

That voice, from a woman suggesting only too joyfully the murder of underage wizards, makes his heart skip a beat or two. She’s not bluffing, he knows that much. They can die--and that’d be the result if they even try to keep on fighting. 

He doesn’t think for a moment longer before casting a Protego charm for himself. He recoils till he’s against the wall and falls to the ground, shielding behind a knight’s armor. He’s still hearing his companions putting a hell of a fight, but he can’t, there’s no way in hell they come out of this alive. And his way of attacking, of showing some resistance so he doesn’t disappoint Ron and Ginny too, is erect a shielding charm on his part of the hall, to stop the Death Eaters--because if they find trouble on the other side of the hall, they’ll try fleeing this way. 

It works, stopping the Death Eaters, but deep inside he would have wished his magic failed him as it so sued to happen to him. It's too dangerous. There are at least half a dozen killers few feet from him. He hears Bellatrix Lestrange's voice too close to him. She'll find him, she will kill him, or torture him the same way she did to his parents.

 “What in the name of Magic is--” 

“It’s nothing,” he hears Draco’s voice, not as calm as the boy wants to pretend. 

Neville’s certain Draco’s very close, that Draco can see him clearly despite the dark fog and knows he’s responsible for this petty joke, this lame attempt at stopping them. Sighing, admitting defeat, Neville nods and casts off the spell. Luckily--there isn’t another word for it--his fears don’t come true and no-one casts the Killing Curse at him. Within seconds the Death Eaters are gone--taking the dark mist with them too. 

Light hurts his eyes as he stands, shivering due to a mix of the eerie quiet, the pain, the fear of this quarrel, the danger. He stands slowly, a hand leaning on the wall, looking for Ginny and Ronald. 

He sees their bodies and runs towards them. At some point they saw the uselessness of their fuss and dropped to the floor too--that was no condition to fight. They look as shaken as he is, but at least, unharmed. In a huge sigh, he leans against another wall, tremulous. 

“You OK?” they ask each other. 

No need to answer three times the one question if they all can move, stand, speak and see on their own accord without needing medical attention--there’re bigger matters at hand. 

“They got away,” Neville whispers, apologetically. “I couldn't--”

“No-one could have done anything, Neville,” interjects Ginny, just a bit rudely, forcing Ron to stand up from the floor. “We were stupid enough to try.” 

Ron's already checking the Map while Neville warns the other DA members with a single alarming, repeated desperate message consistent of two words, “BREAK-IN”, and Ginny casts through the window the Periculum charm--and red sparks shoot up in the sky, then hovering for some long seconds. Now all the staff’s aware of the situation too. 

“Come on, let's go, on the move,” she orders before she’s turned around completely. “Where're they headed?” 

“No idea, for now they've climbed up one floor,” says Ronald in all honesty. 

“After them, then,” says Neville, dashing towards the end of the hallway. Better be on the run than regretting what’s just happened and what they couldn’t prevent. Action’s better than reproach--in every possible situation. 

“Don't lose them,” Ginny warns Ron as he runs with his head dropped, staring the Map. 

“I'm not that stupid,” scowls the sibling. 

They don't waste any time, nor to catch their breath now and then or encourage each other through silent looks or reassuring white lies. They just dash hallways in and corridor out, turning wherever Ron points them out to, wishing against hope to be more successful than this last errand. 

Doesn't seem like it when they're pinned against three more wands five feet from turning the corner.

Acting instinctively, Neville shrieks a Protego charm, whereas Ginny settles for a Reducto one, even before knowing if they’re truly in danger. The two potential victims can defend themselves in time--luckily, since they know each other. Their former DADA teacher from third year, one of Ron’s siblings--the hair’s unmistakable--and a woman from the Order of the Phoenix. 

“Bill!” shrieks Ron even before he raises his eyes from the Map--reason why, Neville guesses, he didn’t even try to protect himself or attack the strangers, since he knew he didn’t have to. “Remus! Dora! So nice to see you, now we've got work,” he orders a bit frantically. 

“Wait,” orders Bill, holding him by the shoulder. “What in Merlin’s name are you three doing here?” 

“Same thing as you--protecting the students and the castle, now that we couldn't prevent the break-in,” simply states Ginny, as if it were the most normal thing in the Magic World. 

“You're students too!” yells the man. 

“It's OK, Bill, for me they're good to go with reflexes like that,” vows Remus. Despite everything, tonight’s dangers, the yelling, the situation, he’s almost relaxed and has the briefest of smiles on his lips. 

“You said the break-in took place?” asks the woman, stepping forward as well. 

“Hey, wait a second,” demands Ginny before Ron and Neville answer, her wand still at the ready, “shouldn't we cast our Patronuses? How do we know we all aren't Death Eaters in disguise?”

“Smart,” approves Bill, already raising his own wand too. 

“We don't have to. The Map confirms all our identities,” vows Ronald. 

“The Map--?” repeats Lupin, staring at the parchment with a strange look, whether remorse or longing, Neville couldn't tell. Their former DADA teacher steps forward, almost reaching for the parchment, but Ron doesn’t let him. 

“Yes, and it tells me the Death Eaters are further away,” he informs. 

“There are Death Eaters--?”

Even though the woman was just trying to put all the cards on the table, she’s cut short by Ginny. 

 “Yes, we don’t know how but Draco managed to get Death Eaters inside the Castle,” she insists. 

"Hold on," begs Lupin, raising a hand as if to physically stop the words escaping their mouths, "you said Draco?"

"Yeah, I did," confirms Ginny."

"Seems like it was him all along," adds Ron, looking straight at Lupin--having a silent two-sided conversation about the Slytherin boy only the two of them can understand.

"Well, I'll be damned," sighs their former professor, running a hand through his hair.

 “We couldn’t stop them,” whispers Neville, feeling like any pride Prof. Lupin might have felt towards him will vanish instantly. 

But it’s not disappointment they get--but anger and outrage. 

“You tried to stop them?!” yells Lupin. 

“Thank Merlin you didn't,” adds Bill, pointing a finger accusingly at Ginny and Ron. “When our mother hears about this--” 

“When she hears about it, if she does, it might be too late, so why don’t we move?” suggests Ginny and, instead of waiting for a permission that might not come from her sibling, her former teacher and a certified Auror, she starts running. As Neville and Ron follow her, none of the others can fall behind, they couldn’t let them. At least they don’t Ron, Ginny and Neville to go back to their dorms; they know that in this situation, each wand is important. One more wand, even an underage wizard’s, can tip the scale. Knowing, also, that the three of them--and any other student out of bed--might join the battle either way, it’s better to keep an eye on them all. 

“Ron,” calls Lupin, at the rear, “where are they headed?”

 “Highest floors,” answers the boy, yelling above his shoulder. “Still don’t know why.” 

“How--reliable--?” tries to ask Dora, side by side with Ginny, but she’s cut off again, this time by Lupin. 

“ _Trust him, the Map never lies._ ” 

The statement makes Neville, Dora, Bill and Ginny frown but this is certainly not the time for arguing or have a nice chit-chat about the Map. The important thing is that it works and that they're able to follow the Death Eater’s path, warning also the rest of the DA, even if they have no idea of their plans. They might be able to put a stop to it--at least now that three adults, and presumably more members of the staff also, is on the loop as well. 

At some point Ron lets out another scowl--which Neville’s come to hate at this point. What else could possibly go wrong? 

“They’ve called Snape in too,” he informs, through his uneven breath. “We must hurry now.” 

“Oh, really? I thought it was just time for tea and jam,” scowls Ginny, possibly fighting the urge to slap her sibling. 

“Maybe he’s going to help,” suggests Dora, trying to keep peace. 

 “ _Help who, exactly?_ ” demands Neville. 

“Come on, you three,” orders Lupin, managing, despite being out of breath, to put a stop amongst three of his former students without raising his voice or retorting to petty intimidation. “Is he headed for--?” 

 “Yep, the Astronomy Tower, same as the rest of that hen,” scowls Ron, folding the Map and putting it inside one of his trousers pockets. “Same as the staff members and the rest of the DA.” 

“Hell of a reunion, up there,” growls Bill. 

“Wonder what’s for,” adds Dora. “They haven’t broken in for a tour around the Castle.” 

“Guess we’ll figure it out eventually,” whispers Bill. “And today, of all nights, Albus is missing.” 

“Speaking of which, where’re Harry and Hermione?” demands Dora. 

 “We’ll catch up some other time,” Lupin interjects. “Come on, one more floor,” he encourages, in spite of looking more exhausted than any other person in the group.


	46. Chapter 46

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the break-in to the School, Bill's hospitalized in the infirmary. However, he needs his family to understand he won't be missing Albus's funeral because of his injuries. Bill/Fleur relationship portrayed.

The young, skinny blonde woman yawns as she steps foot outside the chambers. It was nice of Deputy Headmistress to offer them all private chambers and beds for the time being, but she isn’t getting many hours of sleep either way. It’s a hard task when one is away from home, they’re concerned for the well-being of the love of your life and, well, such a tragedy has taken place in this School.

Students pass her by, most of them forgetting manners taught at the School, though for reasonable cause. She sees recognition on the eyes of some of pupils--they remember her from the Triwizard Tournament, certainly. They appreciate being able to put a name to her face; there are too many unknown people around the School now, after a painful break-in. She nods at some of them, her too, finding it hard to keep a smile on her face.

She knows something’s going on with the only patient in the infirmary still from the end of the corridor being. She can already hear the muffled complains from the nurse, but only understands her words and the reasons behind her yells once she opens the double wooden doors.

The scene she sees gets her as infuriated as the nurse is feeling. Bill’s trying to get out of his bed despite the nurse’s best attempts to restrain him, warning--and Fleur knows she’s not bluffing--she’ll resort to magical ropes if it comes down to it. Though judging by Bill’s scarred face twisted in pain, that won’t be necessary.

“What is going on ‘ere?” she asks as in to let them know she’s here.

Upon seeing her in the doorstep, Bill exhales deeply, finally relaxing; and lets Madame Pomfrey help him lay down on the bed. Once settled, the nurse looks up at the visitor, wiping off her sweaty forehead.

“Ah, Miss Delacour, good morning,” greets Madame Pomfrey. “Nice of you to come by. Perhaps you can convince your husband-to-be not to leave his bed?”

Fleur sits on the chair by Bill’s bed and takes his hands in hers.

“Where on Earth do you want to go? Are you not satisfied with ze care you are provided here?” she tries to joke. 

“Albus Dumbledore’s funeral,” says him sullenly, his voice a drastic contrast with hers. 

His piercing eyes, telling her he won’t come down easily on this matter, stare right into hers as Fleur gasps and clenches Bill’s hands tighter. 

“You are not--’”

“He was my Headmaster, guidance and mentor,” Bill reminds her coldly. “I also want to present him my respects.”

She understands. How could she not. Still--

“Bill, your injuries are still--”

He scowls and releases Fleur’s hands so he can push away the blankets and makes an useless attempt at getting up on his own again. 

“ _Arrête, arrête!_ ” begs Fleur, when she can’t listen anymore to Bill’s scowls and whimpers from all his injuries, forcing him down against the bed. 

“D’you think I give a damn about how I look right now?” scowls Bill. 

Fleur can’t stop him and the man manages to stand from the bed, but doesn’t get too far: two steps forward and he knocks the bedside table. Bill almost follows the table’s suit crashing against the floor, hadn’t it been for Fleur’s quick hand, casting the Spongify so he isn’t hurt and then, drags him back to the bed with the Levitating Charm. 

“And ‘ow about if you see where you are going, Bill?” she demands exasperated, as he’s still fighting the spell that’s dragging him away from the entrance door.

“Just guide me,” replies Bill, his breathing shaky, one arm around Fleur’s shoulders.

“You are in no condition to--”

“Dumbledore’s in no condition to do anything,” Bill interjects rather sharply. “He can’t lead the Order, he can’t mentor the pupils of this School, he can’t protect anyone anymore. As long as I can stand and walk, I can attend his funeral.”

“Billy--”

“What would you do if it were Madame Maxime?”

That’s a low blow, but he gets a pass today--only today. But if Madame Maxime were to perish too in this upcoming War, it’s plain obvious what would Fleur do. The answer appears all too clearly even to Madame Pomfrey, who stands from behind her desk. 

“Miss Delacour--” Her voice, however, shows defeat; she knows what’s at stake. 

“I will be with him ze whole time and bring ‘im back should ‘e feel worse,” she promises before the nurse can say anything against the idea, caressing Bill’s hand. “Plus, you agreed to us taking ‘im ‘ome zis afternoon?”

“Home, where he can rest. His injuries--”

“Please, I’ll be fine,” interjects Bill. “Just give me a tranquillizer so I can sleep for now.”

Exchanging one last look with Fleur, knowing she’ll lose this fight if she dares to engage it, Madame Pomfrey gives in. She grabs a potion from a cupboard and hands a spoonful to Bill, who swallows heavily, before laying on the bed with Fleur’s and the nurse’s assistance. 

It’s still a couple hours since the start of the funeral, but Fleur refuses to leave Bill’s side. Madame Pomfrey hands Fleur a bottle of Murtlap essence and for the next hundred and twenty minutes she settles for cleaning the wounds with a fresh cloth, caressing the injuries that will from now on be a part of Bill, some scars that Magic cannot heal. Taking advantage of Madame Pomfrey’s disappearance and Bill’s unconscious state, she dares to caress them with her fingers, very carefully, very slowly, from side to side; and then even kissing them tenderly, provided by the Essence Murtlap coating. Like she said to molly the same night Bill got injured, she loves him as much as she did two weeks ago. 

At some point, the Weasley family marches into the infirmary, five siblings and two adults with identical gloomy faces and red heads. Upon seeing Billy asleep and Fleur taking good care of him, they leave after five minutes, agreeing to meet down in the grounds. 

Bill wakes, as planned, two hours after taking the potion. Fleur being the first thing he sees lightens his mood and pain considerably; when he opens his eyes and smiles upon seeing Fleur, he’s still half-asleep. 

“ _Bonjour, rayon de soleil,_ ” he says, prompting a grin on Fleur’s lips as well. 

“ _Bonjour, mon amour._ 'ow are you feeling?” she asks, changing into English mid-sentence so Bill’s mind, already overwhelmed by the chronic pain from his injuries, isn’t forced to translating as well. 

“Strong enough to go to the funeral,” he says, reaching a hand out.

Fleur grabs it and helps him sit on the bed, then stand. Madame Pomfrey’s already on his other side, ready to catch him shall he fall, but he doesn’t look that weaken. 

 “Mr. Weasley, you don’t really have to--” 

“No, I’m alright,” Bill promises weakley, rubbing his hair and messing it all up worse after the nap. 

Madame Pomfrey nods once, business-like as ever. 

“Then, if you’re certain, let’s go, Mr. Weasley, Miss Delacour.”

The couple exchange a mild surprised look behind the nurse; they can’t really tell if she’s coming too to the funeral out of respect for Dumbledore or to keep an eye on her patient. Anyhow, as she leads the way out of the infirmary, Fleur follows her, helping Bill limp forward, as he has one arm around her shoulders. 

The road is long and extenuating; not only Fleur has to half-carry Bill, but she has to guide him forwards as well. He misses some steps on the staircases now and then and stumbles with loose stones on the floor. At some point, against her better wishes, she casts a non-verbal levitating charm; what with Bill losing his strength she could foresee she wouldn’t be able to carry him out of the grounds as well. 

Most people have left the Castle already; only a few late students dressed in Hogwarts robes and other guests pass them by occasionally. Not many notice the couple struggling to walk following Madame Pomfrey; many less people dare to stop and offer their help silently. All those who kind unknown wizards are declined respectfully by Fleur, knowing Bill wouldn’t accept their help and wouldn’t help his mood to have someone aiding him because he feels obliged to. 

Bill comes to a stop when they leave the Castle. Shutting his eyes, he raises his head towards the sun, letting the warmth caress his injuries. He’s been inside the School since he was injured; Fleur doesn’t have the courage to hurry him up till he himself decides to do so. Then they keep following Madame Pomfrey to the lake, where a hundred chairs rest in rows, half occupied, all facing a white table set in front. About two hundred wizards are present, some seated, the vast majority standing around the area, separated in varying groups and all muttering sullenly. Fleur and the Weasleys tried to warn Bill, but the man wasn’t prepared for that amount of people gathered in the grounds, including the Castle ghosts. It makes sense, after all Dumbledore was known worldwide, he reckons as they finally reach the area and join their family’s group. 

All the Weasleys, some old mates and few members of the Order consist the group--and everyone, without fails, turns around to send a sympathetic and pity look at Bill, which gets him grinding his teeth. Only Remus and Dora, standing by Prof. Lupin’s side with her hair impossibly pink breaking the black robes code for every guest, seem to understand his condition and feelings, as Lupin pats him carefully on the shoulder in a feeble attempt to cheer him up--as if that were possible to do in a day as today. 

“Morning,” he greets everyone. 

“Hey, Bill,” responds Lucian, smiling politely at him. “Looking great.”

“Thanks, man,” chuckles Bill, because that’s the only thing he can do at this point. 

“Actually,” interjects Fred, who knows how did he manage to get to Bill’s side that fast, “great is all too flattering for our dear big brother.” 

“The proper term would be ‘disgusting’,” adds George, from Bill’s other side. 

Despite the inadequate and improper adjective that gets Molly, Arthur and many others scowling and making an attempt to tell the twins off, Bill and few more chuckle under their breath--one can always trust the twins to bring laughter to a freaking funeral. 

“No offense, Bill, but I have to agree with your brothers,” chuckles Lias. 

“None taken,” replies the man, “but have you looked into a mirror lately? How many pounds have you put on since I last saw you, man?”

“Excuse you--” 

“I’m with Bill on this one,” agrees Edwina. 

Knowing William’s old friends’ usual bickering can take hours long, Molly, Arthur and Lupin turn towards the man in question, not content enough with a simple greeting with him, closing the circle smaller around the patient. 

“You OK, buddy?” asks Lupin, resting a hand on his neck. 

Bill nods a couple times, holding tight to Fleur’s hand--now remembering Madame Pomfrey’s disappeared, thank Merlin. 

“I will be,” he promises. Not good enough to placate everyone’s concerns. 

“Why didn’t you two Apparate down here?” asks Molly with concern, caressing Bill’s empty arm. 

“I’ve had a very strong and particularly good-looking crutch, let me tell you,” jokes the man, winking at Fleur, caressing the shoulder he’s been leaning to. “And I’m alright, Mom, really.”

“Well, that as may be, let’s find you somewhere to sit before every seat’s taken,” suggests Arthur, patting Billy on the shoulders before realizing in fright he almost can’t take it, stammering dangerously on both feet to keep balance. 

“Yeah, good idea, come on,” agrees Remus, leading the way across the crowd. 

Bill turns around with Fleur, his parents behind him, but before leaving for good, Bill checks above his shoulder towards his friends, who’re still arguing about who knows what. 

“You coming?” he asks, raising his voice. 

They break the argument immediately, putting on kind smiles on their lips. 

“We’ll be fine,” promises Lorraine. 

“It’s proper to leave the seats to the elderly, you know,” adds Lias. 

Bill has to hide a roar of laughter under a bad-disguised cough, but transmits all the sarcasm he’s able to manage in his voice as they slowly disappear into the crowd. 

“Very funny, really. Hilarous.”

There’s actually nothing funny about today, though; he shuts his mouth soon enough, as soon as he meets with Ginny, Hermione, Ron and Harry on one of the final rows destined for the Gryffindor students--they’ve saved him a seat, which he takes gladly, very careful of the position he sits in. Just in case, he casts under his bottom the Spongify, so he’s a little bit more comfortable. Afterwards he pats Harry on the shoulder upon noticing his piercing, concerned stare. He takes a good look at him from head to toes, taking in his condition, but doesn’t utter a single word. 

Everyone’s in their place already; a few fortunate ones seated, a large amount of people standing around the area. Even the mermaids have made an appearance and aport the music part to the ceremony. Hagrid’s the one who, clearly struggling, crying silently, brings Albus’ body to the white table before retreating by his half-brother giant. Then Minerva stands to pronounce the first eulogy on Albus’s sake. They linger on and on, to Staff members to former pupils to old friends and members of the Order--at some point Bill can’t keep his eyes open and has to discern the speakers by their voices only, though because of the whimpers and crying, he doesn’t get to hear much of the speeches--but at the same time, it doesn’t feel big enough to honor Albus Dumbledore’s life. How could anyone, in a hundred years, put to words what the former Headmaster meant to the Wizarding community, what he achieved throughout his career and everything he did for Hogwarts School? 

Then, finally, it’s all over. Bill notices Fleur’s hand on his shoulder and opens his eyes to see many students and guests standing from their chairs, some with soaked napkins in their hands, still whimpering. Resting on Fleur, he stands carefully and gets a sweet, wet kiss on the cheek for his valor, his strength and his loss. They don’t wait around but on their way to the Castle, followed by Arthur, they’re forced to stop a couple times so Bill can greet and shake hands with a couple wizards that come their way, all of them showing their sorry for the loss and his condition. Bill gets through it as best as he can and forces to move on before he snaps at someone at a very bad time. 

Madame Pomfrey’s already at the infirmary by the time they get there, bossy as usual, her particular way of coping with Albus’ death and funeral. 

“Mr. Weasley, back to your bed, please,” she orders the minute Fleur steps foot in the infirmary. 

“Ma’am, I just want to get back home,” replies Bill, trying to limp forward, away from Fleur, who he reckons must be suffering a terrible backache by now. 

“I want to check your injuries one last time before you leave,” says the nurse, “and I’ll give you a tranquilizer so you can rest while your mother packs your bags.” 

Bill rolls his eyes but in the end heeds the orders--he needed to sit down either way and a bed is more comfortable than a chair. But the nurse’s excuses are nothing but that, excuses, since it’ll take Molly less than two minutes to pack his clothes and medicines, and there won’t be any change in the condition of his injuries since last time Madame Pomfrey checked. Either way, he stays put until the woman’s satisfied; no-one wants to put up a fight today. 

Less than ten minutes later everyone’s ready to leave, including Arthur, who’s come back to Hogwarts after taking the twins, Charlie, Ron and Ginny home by Apparition. Taking Fleur’s place for a change, father and son step into the chimney and use the Floo line to get to The Burrow--apparating in Bill’s state was out of the question. At home, all of his siblings greet him with warm hugs, soft caresses, kisses on the cheeks and a full tea kettle; until Molly appears, that is. 

“You, up to your room, now,” she orders instantly upon seeing him still standing. “You are taking the three days rest Madame Pomfrey ordered you.” 

“Okay, okay,” accepts one grumbling Bill, headed for the staircases with his light limp. 

“Sure you can get up there?” asks Arthur, following his son closely. “We can prep the guest room for you two.” 

“Nah, I’ll be fine, thank you,” promises Bill, taking Fleur’s hand. “I prefer the quietness of my room.” 

Now, however, no-one allows the girl to keep carrying Bill’s weight up three flights; it’s Molly the one who casts the Levitating Charm so not even Bill notices how he’s being pulled up three stairs to his bedroom--and he doesn’t complain about the treatment either. Once settled on the bed by Molly, Arthur and Fleur, leaving a bottle of water, another of tranquilizers and some Murtlap essence on the nightstand, they leave the couple alone without a big of a fuss; only, they take the precaution to cast a Silencing Charm around the room, both because the kids won’t bother Bill in his sleep and because the family isn’t interrupted by whatever the couple might do in the intimacy of the bedroom. 

Should have realized, however, that Bill and Fleur are nowhere physically and emotionally close to engage any kind of intercourse today. As soon as he finds himself in his bed, Bill’s already drifting off into subconsciousness. The only thing keeping him awake--barely--is Fleur’s touch and, seconds later, noticing how the girl climbs up on bed beside him. 

“Feels nice,” he whispers, hugging her by the wraist, trying to scoot away to give her more space. 

“It does,” she agrees, resting her head inches away from Bill’s, so close she can notice against his ear and his hair her deep, slow breathing. The rhythm and coziness only makes it harder for him to stay awake one more minute. 

“I owe you an apology,” he says after some seconds, when he can force his mind and mouth to utter the words. 

“What for?” asks Fleur, surprise and confusion clear in her voice, trying to look at him in the eye, but he keeps his eyes shut, close to falling asleep. 

“You’re stuck with a handicapped man for life.” 

Fleur rests a hand on Bill’s chest, knowing the exact place where his injuries are and where she can still touch him without causing him any more unnecessary pain--poor man's suffered enough. 

“Bill, you know your injuries are not permanent. And ze scars--I do not care about zem.” 

He raises an eyebrow at her, without opening his eyes. “D’you want to to call of the engagement?

“After the time it took for your mother to accept we wanted to get married, you want to cancel it?” chuckles Fleur, making Bill grin as well, trying his best not to laugh because of the pain. “No, really Bill, you are--What is ze word for it?” 

“Marvelous?” he provides, finally looking sideways at her. 

She grins again, shaking her head. “No. _Fou et stupide._ ” 

Now Bill can’t help himself from bursting out laughing, the mattress shaking under his weight and movement, though the humor dies soon enough, his ribs hurting too much. Before Fleur can reach out for any of the medicines, Bill shifts so he can hug Fleur back by the neck, letting her rest her head against his chin. 

“My family would certainly agree with you.” 

“Well, I ‘appen to believe zey are all very smart wizards and witches.”


	47. Chapter 47

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remus John Lupin and Nymphadora Tonks during a full moon night.

Sixteen years ago, Remus John Lupin was willing to give his life for Harry James Potter. Their Prongslet. 

It’d have been easy. Simpler, even. He doesn’t dismiss the fact of being dead and having to watch the world where he once belonged go on without him. But his sorrows and pain would be over. He would be with his best friends. And happier, without that feeling of being completely helpless while his remaining best friend was sent to Azkaban. Without never learning of Wormtail’s treason and knowing Sirius spent 12 years in that hell-hole for nothing. Without suffering all by himself the transformations of 192 full moons. Maybe there wouldn’t even be a war where all his remaining friends--the few remaining of them--and a whole new generation of kids were to endanger their lives once again. 

Yes, at the time, death seemed easier. 

But somehow he’s been granted a second chance. He probably doesn’t deserve it, but he won’t complain right now. In the last months he’s been happier than any other time during his twelve years in solitude. Probably it isn’t right. There is a war going on, people disappearing, people dying, families slaughtered. Sirius dead. Dumbledore dead. Death Eaters showing everywhere you looked. The Order as helpless as the last time. And yet, he is happy, or as close as he could be. 

Somehow he’s found love, now, when he’s been secluded his whole life. At Hogwarts he snogged some girls, but nothing ever lasted too long--the story of his life--not with him, not with the disclosure of his deepest secret being at stake. After Halloween of 1981 he was completely alone and he doesn’t have much hope of surviving this second war. Tired of helplessly fighting and losing every time. 

But somehow he’s found love. A great woman who finds a way to not only not flinch at the sight of his scars, but to find them funny, looking for patterns and funny shapes. Someone who howls at him from the other side of the house, or the street, when she needs or wants him. Someone who makes him jump by changing her face into Alastor Moody’s and shouts “CONSTANT VIGILANCE” at the top of her lungs while entering the shower with him, or by turning into Snape and waking him up to that sight. (He still hasn’t recovered from that, to be honest.) A woman who wishes she could turn into a full-body animal to keep him company during his transformations, just like the Marauders used to do, since she learnt it helped him so much. A woman who is willing to cure his worse injuries and to help him recover the days after a full moon. A woman so clumsy he sometimes has wondered how on Merlin’s name did she achieve becoming an Auror. 

He hears a loud crash and instant swearing coming from downstairs. Speaking of which, thinks Remus with amusement, tying his shoelaces before going down. He just hopes she isn’t hurt too badly and he sees himself forced to carry her around, as it has already happened twice when she twisted her angle. Not that he minds, though. Nor does Dora. 

Fortunately, the only thing broken is a tray, with the crystal glass and plate. 

“You okay, Dora?” 

He finds her kneeling at the kitchen, trying to wipe the floor. 

“Yeah, yeah, sorry to have startled you. I was hungry and was trying to heat something, but you know me and Molly’s delicious sea-food has found its way to the floor too. And I’m still hungry,” she adds with a miserable voice as her stomach grumbles. 

Remus has to hide a chuckle, while thanking Merlin for the fact that Dora wasn’t trying to cook by herself again. 

“And may I know why are you cleaning this mess the Muggle way?” he asks amused. 

“You know I’m no good with cleaning spells, I’d only make it worse.”

“Well, it’s a shame there is no-one here to help you out, huh?” 

“I think Teddy is too young for that, Rem.” He chuckles, with an eyebrow raised that eventually, makes Dora sigh and leave the broom against the wall. “And I didn’t want to bother you again.” 

“Come on, I wouldn’t call this--” he swipes his wand with a simple flick of his wrist and the kitchen floor is clean at once, the broken dishes at the bin, the fish intact on the tray on the top counter, “--such a big bother. I really need to teach you a couple of cleaning and ordering spells.” 

“Good luck with that. My mother’s been trying since I was two”. 

“Poor woman,” murmurs Remus, loud enough for his wife to hear. “But seriously, Dora, you should have told me you were hungry. Your humble servant is supposed to treat you whenever and whatever you want.” 

“It’s just--” 

Dora doesn’t finish her sentence, but the look she throws at her husband is simple enough for him to understand her reasons. He lets out a sigh and leans in the countertop of the kitchen, putting away his own wand, as he throws Dora a compassionate look. 

“I’m fine, Dora,” he sighs. “I took the Wolfsbane Potion and I’m not nearly in that much pain as I used to. I’m just a little sore, but nothing I can’t handle, and definitely, nothing that deprives me of helping my wife.” he adds giving her a stern, lovable look. “I suspect I’ll have an almost pleasant night.” 

“It won’t ever be pleasant,” she shoots back. 

“No, it won’t,” he accepts with a sigh, wondering why would he lie to her now. “But I’m expecting it to be an easy transformation. It’s gonna be OK, and even if tonight I’m facing my werewolf counterpart, like I said, it’s not an acceptable excuse. You’re carrying this baby nine months, I must be here to help you in any way I can. You should take it easy, you know that.” 

“ _Excuse me?_ Have you actually just told me to take it easy?” 

“My bad,” Remus apologizes at once. “Stupidest thing to say. Hey, hey, no need to take out your wand at your husband,” he prays, raising his hands in defeat. 

“You weren’t so afraid of me with a wand just a minute ago.”

“Well, I happen to know you’re really good with hexes, if nothing else. Please, please, don’t kill your own husband?”

“Only because you ask me so nicely,” she chuckles, lowering her wand. She puts it away in her arm holster, at hand in case there’s an emergency. Even, or specially, when they sleep, they have their wands at their bedside tables, more important even than a glass of water or painkillers. 

“Thank you, milady. Jokes aside, you are pregnant and need to rest. Let me heat this up for you to avoid any further injuries”. 

Without any complain, Dora leaves the kitchen and goes to the living room. Remus watches her, smiling broadly, before getting her dinner ready. This whole newly-weds life, living together and being happy and laughing at all times, in the midst of a war, probably isn’t right, or even legal. But, what can he say? She’s carrying his child. 

Well, being honest to himself, probably there is a lot he can say. He’s too poor, too old for Dora, too old for having a child to take care of, too unstable, too dangerous. How did I ever agree to this?, he asks himself once again. How could he be a responsible father, with his monthly transformations, horrible and painful? If he knows something, is that Dora doesn’t deserve this work ahead of her. 

Not that ahead of her, he reminds himself, peering Dora on the couch, falling again upon her bump. She’s already finishing her second trimester. Somehow the sweater she’s knitting triggers the thoughts he so desperately tries to dismiss every single hour of every past day. The sweater it’s meant for him, as a nice present from his beloved wife, not quite for his birthday or Christmas, since they don’t schedule anything these days, nor do anything with any kind of agenda or hope. They’re not that naïve. Remus is living this for the second time already and knows, even clearer than the first time, that he’ll give his life in this war, for this child. And Dora is just the same way Lily was. So they are quite certain, or rather hopeful, this kid will have a future, even if it’s not with them. 

And even if they planned, that’d be the biggest stupidity none of them has ever done in their lives. Plan what, exactly? Agree than in more or less three months Dora’ll be having a child and a werewolf to take care of. _What kind of life is that for a young woman?_ While battling in a fricking war? What the hell has he been thinking of? Raising a fricking baby in the midst of a war? That’s insane. James and Lily didn’t do too well in that same situation; in their twenties they seemed more ready than they seem to be to have a child while actively participating in a war. 

And, worse of all, what if the child is genetically cursed with lycanthropy? All he’s got is hope; there’s no research to go by on this matter, because, obviously, no-one in his right mind would ever have sexual relations with a werewolf, and then having the child they conceived. Too dangerous. Too unstable. That’s what he is. With him, nothing lasts. 

Not even a pleasant evening can, he sighs as he checks the time and leaves his book on the sofa, by his side. Since she’s had dinner it’s the first time he’s moved and obviously, the gesture isn’t missed by Dora, who now Remus believes hasn’t been able to knit that much either, as she glances up at once, meeting Remus’ eye. 

“Is it time already?” she asks, concern very well hidden on her voice. 

“I’m afraid so,” says Remus, trying to keep his voice as casual as possible. “One usually can’t be ready for something like this.” 

“OK, then,” Dora says, trying to stand up from the armchair. Remus jumps to her side to help her, which for once, she doesn’t refuse and holds tight to his arm till she’s on her two left feet. “Let’s get you a good coat.” 

They go to the hall and Dora opens the cupboard, looking through the couple of Remus’ coats there are hanging, and grabbing the thickest, newest one. Even though they’re risking to it being shred to pieces by the wolf during the night, in the morning Remus will appreciate a good, warm blanket. Dora holds the coat open for Remus and without discussing what has become stupid at this point, he turns his back to her and she helps him put his arms through the sleeves and shakes some dust from the shoulders as he buttons the coat. Once settled, Dora rests her hands on his shoulders and Remus feels how she tightens the embrace only slightly, as if not to hurt him even more. He knows she wants to say something; he can almost hear her thoughts running through her brain. And prepares for the refusal, which will be as heartbreaking as ever. 

“Can’t I do something else?” she begs, making him turn around to face her. 

“Not tonight, Dora,” he sighs, avoiding her eye. “You know that.” 

“And tomorrow?” asks her at once, trying--or almost needing to--be useful for him in return. 

“Taking care of my injuries.” 

“That’s for granted,” replies her. “I meant something else.” 

“You’re not thinking of going there, are you?” 

He takes her silence as a clear enough answer and sighs deeply once more. After all, every full moon is a harder job to convince her not to follow him and not to go looking for him later. This time, he simply can’t endure the agony and discussion anymore. 

“Only after dawn--” 

“Which will be at six am, in the caves where you’re going,” informs Dora. 

Remus sighs, shifting the weight of his aching body, almost not believing his ears, or rather, being amazed that Dora’s stubbornness till comes as a surprise. Of course Dora has looked it up somewhere. Of course she’s got a first-aid kit hidden in the cupboard, very close by, ready for when he needs it. Of course she’s not getting any more sleep than he will tonight. Of course she’s eager to help him in any way she can. 

“You have to promise you won’t be there at 6 am,” he scowls, looking her directly in the eye, for once acting stern and parental with his wife. 

“But, what if you’re too injured to Apparate? _Or to move?_ ” reasons Dora. 

“I’ve suffered plenty of transformations on my own, I assure you I’ll be fine.” 

“Remus--” 

“OK,” stops him, knowing Dora well enough to know when a battle’s lost with her. “If I’m not home by half past seven, you can come and pick me up. But no sooner than seven thirty, you understand? I don’t want you to endanger yourself or our child’s life unnecessarily,” he ads, resting a hand on her stomach. 

She doesn’t reply instantly and Remus sees that somehow, he’s won this round. But she biting her lip implies that he will pay for this someday. Honestly, he doesn’t care; it’s enough for him the hopes of them both still being here for it. He sighs again and moves his hands up to Dora’s cheeks. 

“You using our child as a bargaining chip is unfair,” whispers her, shaking in despair, anger and agony. 

“I know,” replies Remus with a smirk. “But it’s the only thing that works with you, and on this matter, I need you to reason. And if I may, I’m going to use it one more time tonight: do try to get some sleep, even if it’s only for them, OK? They don’t need both of their parents exhausted tomorrow.” 

“I’ll try,” she says, nodding her head. Or rather, not looking at him in the eye, which is just another mean of getting away with lying to him. They know each other fully well at this point. As well as they know it’s useless to engage yet another fight over this matter, so Remus leans forward to kiss her gently on the lips and then turns around, opening the front door. 

He climbs down the steps to the street. The neighborhood is dead silent; not a single person or couple walking around, though it’s still early, but due to the strategic disappearances and murders by Death Eaters, understandably, very few people dare to go out even late in the evening or do anything outdoors anymore. 

There’s still light coming from the house and he looks behind him, stumbling upon Dora resting against the front door, looking at him with a smirk and worried eyes, a mixture that invites and almost compels him to walk back to her. How he’d love to stay all night with her, cuddling in bed, warm and comfy, and not having to suffer a transformation. But he can’t and in order to not make this any harder than it already is, he simply nods and starts walking. Few steps away, the door finally closes behind him, leaving the werewolf alone on the streets below the dim light of the setting sun. 

Before getting more depressed, he inhales deeply and concentrates on the caves he’s used to going to transform. Two seconds later, he’s already there, stumbling feet, and he has to lean on the rock walls to avoid falling down. He concentrates on breathing in and out calmly and deeply for a few moments till the dizzying and nauseas disappear, and only then he’s able to stand straight, look around and check the area. It’s usually a deserted zone--he’s been coming here for six months now without an incident--but with him, there’s a first time for any bad thing to take place. Luckily enough, he seems to be all by himself; the forest below his feet seems quiet too. There isn’t a bonfire in sight and he can’t smell even the trace of humans close to the cave. He’s safe for tonight. 

That doesn’t soothe him yet and, since he’s got some time still, he takes out his wand and casts every protective and retaining shield he’s learnt over the years. An amount of ten spells or so are usually strong enough to last throughout the night, even when he loses his mind, even considering the wolf’s fury. Of course, he can’t counteract the minor disadvantage: the wards go down with his magic when he loses consciousness, which forces him to stay awake even when the wolf attacks himself badly enough to cause a serious blood loss. Fortunately, ever since he’s started dating Dora, the wolf’s much more calmed and tamed now, and the injuries the wolf causes on his body are each time less grave and worrisome. 

Once he’s done with the spells, he takes off all of his clothes, folds them carefully, hides the wand in between the robes and hides it all down the hole he carved the first time he came here, covering them with sand and rocks. The wolf won’t be attracted by that smell and maybe his clothes--and more importantly--his wand won’t be damaged. When speaking about it with Dora, he said he still wanted to take his wand despite the risks, as he wasn’t willing to endanger any human being by not raising the protective shields. 

He then sits down on the cave, arms around his legs, and stares at the horizon. The sun’s already setting behind the trees, casting long shadows --he’s got only a few minutes left. He sighs, fearing nervously the imminent painful transformation. It’s at this moment, while waiting for the moon to raise, that he feels most lonely and devastated. Back at Hogwarts, Padfoot, Prongs and Wormtail’d be with him, making him laugh, distracting him, right till the moment he asked them to leave to transform by himself; and then, one second after he was the wolf, they were already in the room with him. This is when he most remembers, painfully, the curse he received at five. This one, and the moment he wakes up after a transformation, when he’s all alone again, while back at Hogwarts, his friends would have covered him with a blanket, carried him over the bed, and would be ready to make him laugh despite his injuries. Two moments of complete distress he’s forced to relive month after month. 

Fortunately, today he doesn’t have much time to think about the past and his feelings. It hasn’t been two minutes when the aching worsens to unbelievable levels and he lets out a loud yell, falling to the floor, rolling and shrieking in desperate agony, feeling like he’s being ripped from the inside and he finds himself begging for his mind to be taken by the wolf’s the sooner the better. After that moment, his brain doesn’t process the same way the information he receives, which makes the pain much more bearable. But it still takes him five full minutes of insufferable torment till he fully transforms. 

From that point forward, luckily his mind doesn’t hold any real information or retains any kind of memory. The first thing his conscious understands is the bright light of the sun and the smell of a human presence. He tenses, but recognizing the scent is the only wolf trait he still feels--he doesn’t fondle the idea of attacking that human being. He’s already suffered the second transformation and, apparently, quite successfully and uninjured. He dares to open his eyes and squirts them almost immediately with a groan, the dim light being still too bright for him. 

“Wakey wakey,” says a woman’s voice. Too close to him. He jumps backwards till he hits the cave’s wall, out of instinct and prevention. Though Dora seems almost shocked by his reaction, she doesn’t appear to be frightened by him. However, she should be, reckons Remus, as he orders his muscles to relax and adopt a sitting position and he retrieves from the floor the coat --surprisingly, not wrecked for once-- that was covering him. Before putting it on, however, he checks himself for injuries and overall, concludes that it could have been much worse. 

“Is it already half past seven?” he asks, surprised, buttoning the coat. He thought he’d be in good enough shape to return home by himself. 

“It’s quarter to eight, actually,” says her, still smiling fondly. “I’ve followed your advices.” 

“OK,” he sighs. At least she didn’t threaten her or their kid’s life by coming too early, though he didn’t want her to come here at all. 

“Here,” says Dora, offering him a canteen with some steaming liquid inside. “Relax, it’s my mothers’, it won’t poison you,” laughs her as Remus looks conspicuously at the canteen. At that, he takes it gladly and eagerly, smelling a nice, warm, nutrient soup, and drinks a long sip, barely registering the temperature. 

“Is Andromeda staying?” he asks then, when he’s calmed down a bit his hunger. 

“No, I wouldn’t impose her on you today, don’t worry,” laughs her again. “She just came by yesterday night to check on me and left some things to eat for the both of us.” 

“Nice of her,” murmurs Remus, drinking another small sip. “So, how were you last night?” 

She bursts out laughing and doesn’t even bother to answer him. “How are you?” she demands, clearly indicating that she won’t change the subject and that she’s expecting a truthful answer. 

Remus sighs, looking down at his body again. “Well, you’ve seen me. Some minor injuries and cuts all over. But I’m moving and talking on my own, which is a good sign.” They both nod at that, remembering some other awful nights where Remus couldn’t even stand from the floor. 

“Your robes and wand survived as well,” informs her, signaling the folded pile of clothes on a corner, with the wand on top of it. Remus nods, thanking her for answering his question in advance, but she hasn’t responded the most crucial one, and he’s forced to verbally express it. 

“Did he get out?” he asks concerned. 

“I don’t think so,” she reckons. “You were on the other corner of the cave when I came here; and I’ve checked the area, there hasn’t been any recent killing.” 

“That’s good,” says Remus. 

“Very good,” confirms Dora, sending him a reassuring smile. 

He nods, inhaling deeply. “Let’s go home,” he proposes, struggling to get up. He’s pretty sure Dora, as every full moon, despite her promise, has slept as much as he has, so he wants to get back home as soon as possible for them both to get to bed. 

“Hey, hold on,” Dora stops him without even raising from her spot. “At least finish that soup, you need it.” 

Without energy to argue with her this early in the morning, much less to argue when she’s completely right, he sits down again and takes another sip of the soup. He could tell she wasn’t going to help him stand and he does need some help. Apart from that minor issue, Dora seems relaxed and at peace on her spot, looking out of the caves to the dawning sun and the forest, so he relaxes as well, leaning against the wall, and takes his time to finish the canteen while admiring the view. If they weren’t here because of his condition, it would almost be a good spot for a nice date out with his wife. 

When he’s finished the soup, Remus shows the empty canteen to Dora, who takes it and places it inside a bag he hadn’t seen before. 

“I’ve come prepared,” says her upon seeing his eyebrows frowned. “Some robes, a couple of canteens and some food. If you want--?” 

“I only need to go home”, replies him with exhausted voice. The soup has warmed up his aching body and calmed his stomach; there is actually nothing else he needs, besides a good and soft bed. Understanding it all, Dora nods and helps him to put on some clothes, at least the underwear and the sweater so he won’t get cold. Next she holds him below his armpits and in a great amount of effort from the both of them, helps him stand. She stops moving once he’s on his feet, looking at Remus, checking his pain and injuries. He’s holding his breath and has a hand covering his ribs --as usual, he’s overestimated his injuries. 

“D’you want to--?” 

“No, let’s go home,” replies him, his eyes still shut. Dora waits for a few seconds, till he breathes evenly again, to Apparate. She’s put down the wards around their home before leaving and so, when Remus opens his eyes again, they’re not outdoors, but in the middle of the entrance hall. For once he doesn’t disapprove of her reckless actions; there’s something else that’s attracted his attention. 

He didn’t take any clock with him to avoid breaking it and couldn’t check Dora’s words, mainly because he never thought he’d have to, but now it seems he should have. The clock on the kitchen’s wall is now signaling five to seven. With a growl, he closes his eyes again, now in exasperation, and tries to step away from Dora. She doesn’t let him, as she still doesn’t get the reason of his change of attitude. 

“Dora, you’ve lied to me again,” scowls Remus, trying really hard to stay calm. “Don’t you _ever_ come to look for me so soon after the transformation. I don’t know what could happen.” 

“I do know you wouldn’t hurt me.” 

“I’m not engaging this discussion again, Dora! The wolf’s perfectly capable of hurting you, even killing you!” 

“Remus, come on, in this situation, you wouldn’t have been able to Apparate on your own--” 

“ _That’s not the issue, Dora, for Merlin’s sake!_ Why do you always have to turn a deaf ear when there’s a dangerous situation ahead?” 

“I can’t change who am I, Remus,” replies her quietly. 

At that, he quits the shouting and the bickering--also because his ribs are hurting like hell--and giving up, drops his head down, resting it on Dora’s shoulder, exhausted by everything.

“And I would never dream of forcing you to,” he sighs. He can feel how she smiles before focusing again on the task on her hands. She checks she’s got a tight hold on him, his remaining strength and gulps for air. Remus cooperates as much as he can on the way to the dormitory, as he so desperately needs a comfortable bed.


	48. Chapter 48

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dumbledore's Army students are still meeting at the Room of Requirements even during the Carrow's siege. But the mood is down and their strength, diminished.

_I need a place to escape._

It’s almost as easy as breathing for her to summon the Room of Requirement now. In fifth year she was unsure about the Dumbledore’s Army and Potter’s classes; today, she so desperately needs a safe haven to escape to every day, that she has no trouble at all for finding it.

She enters quickly the Room and the door closes behind her without making a sound --exactly as she wanted it to, in order to avoid catching anybody’s attention. There isn’t a light lit on the Room and she waits for a few seconds till her eyes get used to the darkness.

“Do I have to cast the ‘Homenum Revelium’?” she asks completely exhausted, to an apparent empty Room. But it isn’t, of course: she isn’t, by far, the only one who these days needs desperately some place to hide away, just for a few hours.

Slowly, the lights start coming to life and some people come out from their hiding places, wands rose, murmuring in fright, coming closer to identify her. Cho doesn’t move from her spot, allowing them to acknowledge who she is. They don’t extend the same courtesy, as they approach with their wands lit on the tip, and hence she can’t really see their faces, even when they’re just a few feet apart.

Before they ask her to do so, Cho raises her wand and murmurs ‘Expecto Patronum’. As usual, she has a hard time producing her patronus --it’s not that easy these days to remember so many happy or funny memories when you’re feeling nothing but blue. But all of them can wait, so she manages at her fifth try, and her swan appears, running wildly around the Room with its fainted blue light before vanishing within seconds. Joy doesn’t last much these days.

Dean and Thomas are the first ones who lower their wands and sigh deeply. Turning their backs half-way to Cho, they announce to everybody else present who’s the new guest. Some greet her nicely, others just turn around and find some place to sit and some things to eat. Very few conversations engage; and if they do, they are quiet, in low murmurs, and even if they spend here the whole night, there won’t be a single joke to laugh about.

“Was all of that really necessary?” asks her in exasperation, going to some couches against the wall and just dropping into them.

“What do you think?” replies Thomas in a sharp tone.

“Sorry I asked,” sighs Cho, raising her hands in a defeated gesture. It’s bad enough they’re forced to look behind their shoulders every hour of every day because of the Carrows; she thought this was the safe haven of Hogwarts where everybody trusted everybody and all these protective measures were completely unavoidable. But it seems mistrust is seeding everywhere these days. And she gets it --if one of the Carrows, or the prefects, or even some of the teachers, discovered them or the Room of Requirement, they’d be tortured ad infinitum, or even worse. Filch couldn’t be happier this school year: he finally got the permission to use the dungeons as torture chambers again, as it used to be “in the old good days.” Filch in a good mood is the clearest sign that everything’s gone mad.

“Here,” says Justin, approaching her.

She looks up and sees the boy’s arms full of snacks and drinks. She eagerly offers him a seat before she starts eating and takes the butterbeer on the other hand. Of course, they can usually count on the Hufflepuffs students to bring something to eat with them from the kitchens on their way up here. The house-elves are probably the only ones on this castle who haven’t publicly announced they belong, or stand by, any of the new policies of the school. They’ll either offer them food or lead the Carrows after them.

Despite her complaints, Cho takes as many precautions as the next one when they hear a door’s being opened somewhere in the Room. All conversations quit at once, the lights dim gradually till they’re in the darkness again and everybody stands up, muscles tensed in fright, wands at the ready, as they hide waiting for the new guest to identify himself. In spite of knowing that no-one can enter the Room without the permission of the people inside of it, they can’t stop doing all this charade every time. It’s simply survival instinct.

The newcomer walks in and takes a few steps till he’s in the middle of the room, at plain sight of everybody’s wand --which is probably part fo his plan in an attempt to sooth them all down as soon as possible.

“I’m Neville. Some forms of the Venomous Tentacula plant can fire spore-like balls.” At that, everybody knows it’s Neville for sure and step away from their hiding places to greet him. Only him would have created a password out of some Herbology term. And somehow, his presence enlightens everybody’s mood, as all the DA members, old and new, come out with faint smiles on their faces.

“Hi, everyone. How are you?” asks Neville politely.

“Oh, we’re OK, compared to others,” laughs Dean.

“Merlin’s balls, Neville, what happened to you?” demands Justin as he shakes Neville’s hand, stepping closer to examine his face. “You look awful. Who’s beaten you?”

“I saved Henry, you know him, right? The first-year muggle Ravenclaw? This morning I saved him from a hex.”

“Who wanted to do this to the poor lad?”

“No, this is a hex I received from the Carrows for saving the kid. At least he’s fine.”

“Your face isn’t, though,” replies Dean. Before no-one even says it out loud, the Room offers them a first-aid kit. Ginny gets it and comes to Neville with it, making him sit down on some couches and starts cleaning the open cuts on his face. He curses under his breath a few times, but overall, stays quiet and lets Ginny work.

“Neville, man, you really need to stay low,” begs Thomas. “You’re hexed daily nowadays.”

“Better me than a first-year muggleborn,” replies him while trying not to move much. “We can’t let them think every wizard’s like the Carrows. They’ll think the Wizarding World is something evil.”

“I’m sure they don’t think so. And even if they did, you suffering all this--”

“It’s nothing, guys, really.”

“I just want to say, you’ve already got your grandma on the run. You may want to lay low for a while.”

At that, Neville lets out a loud laugh, louder than anything they’ve heard tonight, which frightens some of them, but makes laugh the other half of DA members. “Yeah. She can run faster than any Death Eater and defend herself from Voldy. I’m not worried about her. And with her gone, they have nothing left to blackmail me with, so I’m fine. And I am lying low; do you see me counteract them?”

Of course he doesn’t: his injuries would be a lot worse if he still dared to do so. The first week of the school year he--and a lot of the DA members--spent a lot more time up at the infirmary than attending classes.

“Neville, it’s been only a week since the beginning of second term and you’ve already seen Madame Pomfrey twice,” replies Luna politely, holding his hand. “You should take it easy.”

“Oh, come on, it’s fine. How’re all of you?” asks him, more concerned, looking at all the DA members.

They all seem uninjured--of them all, Neville’s the one who’s received the worst hexes so far. Today’s been a good day; sometimes they need more than a simple first-aid kit. But he knows this situation won’t last long: the Death Eaters can’t stand Luna’s care-free philosophy in life; Ginny’s stubbornness and standing up against them at classes; or Dean and Thomas mockery. It’s only a matter of time till they all receive too their Christmas presents from the Carrows. Of course, that refers only to the physical condition of his fellow DA members. The psychological one is tougher to see and tougher to heal.

“Hey,” he says in authoritative voice, making all of them look up at him again. “We have to stand up to our enemies, you know that, don’t you?” he demands, looking at all of them alternatively. Very few of his companions stare back at him: Ginny, Dean, Thomas, Luna. The rest don’t seem as convinced as them five. It’s hard to keep the moral high when you’re surrounded by darkness, sighs Neville--both literally and figuratively.

“It’s just... What’s the point?” asks Zachary. “We’re here, Merlin knows how much we’re suffering, and we say time and time again this is what we have to do, but... Why? Is there really a point? Can we really fight Voldemort inside these walls? When we can’t even stand against half a dozen of his Death Eaters. We’re taking beating after beating after beating and--for what? Are we honestly still waiting for Potter to show up out of nowhere? Do we really need a sign that probably will never come?” 

“Oh, so that’s what you want? To fight?” demands Ginny. “Why didn’t you say so way sooner, Zachary? On September 1st, for example? But hey, we can still fix it--Let’s go kick some Death Eaters’ ass.” 

No-one moves from their spot, out of astonishment; not even Ginny, which has proven her point. 

“What?” she demands. 

“Somehow... It just... Doesn’t... Seem... Right,” confesses Cho in a low murmur. 

“You’re bloody right, it doesn’t seem right, ‘cause it’s not,” scoffs Ginny. “It wouldn’t make any sense to attempt any attack at this point. Say we did--would we actually have any supporters at all?” 

“I imagine we would,” replies Thomas politely. “Most of the students would join us. And imagine if the entire school fought against the Carrows and the rest of Death Eaters. They wouldn’t stand a chance.” 

“You don’t know that,” replies Cho. “Not all the school would be willing to fight.”

“Really? Do you honestly think even Slytherins like this situation? They’ve been given privileges and can hex whomever they want whenever they want, but even they can’t accept this whole teaching system for long.”

“It’s been four months now; what have they proven?”

“They’re under a lot more pressure than us,” reasons Dean. “Not physical, of course, but the majority of Slytherin students have parents who are known Death Eaters. If they were to turn their backs on their parents and hence, the Dark Lord, it would be suicidal for all of them.”

“Explain me again then, why are we hiding the DA and the Room of Requirement from all the House of Slytherin?”

No-one has a good answer to that and hence, they fall silent again. Ginny’s long finished with Neville’s injuries and she places the first-aid kit on a table, as a way to fill in the tensed silence.

“Someday,” says Neville, very slowly and low. “Someday it will all make sense. OK? These things always make a difference in the end. You’ll see. I promise. If not, you can beat me up to death once all of this is over. But for now, we have to endure all this.”

“For how long?” demands now Cho. “Come on, guys, we’ve got an army here! We could at least plan and prepare for--” 

“OK, say we did it,” interjects Ginny once more. “And let’s say for the sake of sanity that by some miracle, the school joins us and we get rid of the Death Eaters plaguing Hogwarts. Can you tell me what you expect then? Voldemort just accepting and ignoring the riot?” As no-one answers to her, she continues her speech, offering the response they all were thinking--and fearing. “No, he will send more Death Eaters at once, and the consequences then would be devastated. I’m not sure the instigators of the riot would survive for long.” 

Her words make everyone fall silent again. But bottled up feelings are hard to contain for long in an environment where they can finally express them. 

“All I’m saying is, it’s time we fight back,” whispers Zachary. And most of the DA members stand by him, joining him on his retort, willing to fight, wands at the ready. “Come on, we’ve got a bloody army here!” 

“You’re not looking for a fight,” snaps Luna. “What you mean is revenge.”

“On this case, what’s the difference? Really,” demands the boy. “Come on, we’re talking about attacking Death Eaters. None of us is against it.”

“Yeah, we’re all up to it, agrees Justin. “It’s time they earn their own medicine.”

“It is not the right time,” sighs Neville, his heart aching. It’s the first time he’s had to put a stop to his DA members and it’s almost devastating. “We must endure this.” 

“If we could just rally the professors--” suggests Cho in her quiet voice.

“That’s the easiest way I can think of for Snape to figure us out,” reprimands Thomas.

Yes, sighs Neville in despair, the ultimate problem is their new Headmaster. Last time that Voldemort was in power the Hogwarts Headmaster stood publicly against him--and hence, all the educational institution and everyone who stood by Dumbledore did so too. All the professors and the majority of students, including his parents and a lot of other DA member’s parents, fought Voldemort and his Death Eaters. Now, they’ve got a hell of a Headmaster, who will report to the Dark Lord any kind of revolution that may happen inside his school. That’s probably why he did it, actually. His first move was to kill Dumbledore--the first dead of the War--to gain power and control over the one institution who supposed a thread against him the last time.

Neville sighs deeply, resting his hands on his knees and looks down to his feet as the demands and yells go on for what seems like an hour; he vaguely feels someone’s caring hand caressing his arm in a reassuring way. Sadly, he agrees with his DA members. They could fight. Harry taught them well and they’ve been practicing new spells--they could do it. He’s up for it more than any of the rest. But he knows too this isn’t the time to attack. This moment requires caution. Patience. Low profile. Voldemort thinks he’s taken Hogwarts, proving that he rules now. But Hogwarts itself is the last protection against him; and they, Dumbledore’s Army, are that last defense. Voldemort waited thirteen years before coming back to life and regaining power. They can wait a few more months. Though it’s utterly heartbreaking to turn a blind eye and turn the other cheek to the Carrows and to Snape without putting a fight or resisting, they must. It’ll be worth it. When the time comes, the name “Harry Potter” will bring almost every student to the cause--in spite of knowing they have very high regards towards some Slytherins.

“What we need,” he says, even though no-one listens to him, the way they’re all engaged in their own discussion, “is a way out. Some friendly help.”

Suddenly there’re noises again, as if the Room was transfiguring once again to allow a new student to get in. This causes the usual reaction: everybody shuts up (finally), the lights go out. But after some seconds, when the noise quits, they don’t hear anyone entering the room, or identifying himself by casting a Patronus or any other spell. It’s deadly quiet for so long that brings goosebumps to all of them; Neville feels cold sweat running down his spine.

He raises his wand and light the tip of it, a range of five feet from him. Before he has to ask out loud, the lights of the Room lit again feebly. All the DA members come out from their hiding places for the zillionth time, looking around--but there isn’t a newcomer anywhere in the Room.

“What’s that up there?” asks Justin all of a sudden. Some people go where he is, standing by his side and looking up. He’s signaling one of the walls with his wand; a frame has appeared out of nowhere. It’s an old magic picture of a pretty young lady, who can’t be much older than them, light skin, brown eyes and curly blond hair. She is smiling softly at them and then, all of a sudden, she stares right at Neville, which for some reason makes him sit straighter on he couch. The young lady talks looking only at him, as if her words were meant only to him. And maybe they are:

“Aberforth can help you,” she says.

At that Neville stands up at once and steps forward, almost in disbelief, approaching the smiling picture, with Luna and Ginny at his sides, seemingly as confident as he is. He’s been proven wrong: as usual, someone was listening. This Room. Like Hogwarts itself is trying once more to beat the evil residing inside these walls, and offering them the means to do it. These are dangerous times, no denying that, but there’re risks worth taking. And this is certainly one of the risks he’s willing to take. Even if that man can only offer them medical supplies or food, they’ll accept it.

“Where can we find this man?” he asks without a second of hesitance.


	49. Chapter 49

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At Hogwarts, students from all Houses and the Staff are feeling downhearted and crestfallen. But silver linings might come now and then to the most unexpected people.

She climbs up the hill as fast as she can, hence sinking deeper into the muddy ground, up to the ankles, by every step, robes stuck to her skin. The cold air freezes her mouth and burns her lungs on the way in, before escaping in loud pants, barely audible over the roar of the storm. In the end, when she sinks up to the knees on a pond she hadn’t seen in time, she gives up; she thought she could make it to the Castle but it’s probably wiser to make a detour to the greenhouses and wait there till the storm clears out a bit. 

The door flies open due to the wind and, because of the same reason, she has a hard time shutting it behind her. When she does, she feels better right away, noticing the warmth around her, her fingers and lips hurting because of the exposure to cold. Through the crystal walls and ceiling she can see the storm taking place outside; it almost feels strange to be safely away from it behind a single door and a four-wall structure. 

She pants against the door, her curly hair stuck to her forehead, a silence she hadn’t thought possible surrounding her. The single word that breaks it gets her jumping out of fright and yelping. 

“Hey,” greets a man. “Don’t panic, it’s alright, hey,” he yells then. 

Standing up from the stool, his hands raised as to show he means no harm to her, the figure points his wand to the small candlelight on the table and lights it and she discovers it’s just Neville Longbottom, no-one else. 

“It’s alright, Hannah, I’m not going to hurt you,” he promises, low, firm, sweet voice. 

The girl knows every word is nothing but the truth--she does now, it could have been anyone, especially someone without such a peaceful disposition. Hannah finally lets out the breath was holding and pulls her fingers away from the doorknob, where she was holding onto as not to drop dead to the floor. 

“I can leave if you want,” suggests Neville, one hand reaching for his robes and backpack. 

“No, please,” interjects Hannah. Wouldn’t want to throw someone out into the same storm she was seeking refuge from. “Stay, it’s alright.” 

He thanks her with a warm smile as he seats down again, his hands over the table, at Hannah’s visual field at all times, his wand set aside. Every precaution gesture to promise her she’s safe. 

“The storm got you?” he asks kindly. Not that complicated to guess, considering the water dripping from her hair and robes, but she still forces herself to answer to him. 

“Yeah, big time,” she says after clearing her throat and finds the strength to utter the words. 

“Well, you’re welcome to stay, needless to say. Come, have a seat,” Neville welcomes her in, signaling the stool by his side. 

She ponders for two seconds. However, it’s not Neville himself what draws her towards the table, but the thing he’s apparently taking care of. She walks forward funnily decidedly, careful with the water her robes are dripping, nothing else on her mind, passing by the rows of plants on the stands and tables, where she could never find two plants identical. Either they’re tall enough to reach the ceiling, or as big as her hand, their branches moving swiftly, in suave gestures--meaning they’re comfortable, warm and nourished--walking through the narrow path towards the table Neville’s working on, with a specific plant. 

She stops couple feet from the boy, without really staring at him, eyebrows frowned.< /p>   

“Is that--?” 

“A Screenshap,” confirms Neville with a nod of his head. 

He turns the tray so the plant faces her, with an obvious distraught and even, painful look on its trunk, a low, continued growl escaping its lips that she couldn’t hear from the entrance door. He’s clearly in some kind of irritated state, something she wasn’t aware of, hence she looks up at Neville, expecting an answer, when she realizes he looks just as worried as the same plant for its ailing. 

“On Monday’s class Arabella Goldstein, from 5th year, d’you know her?” 

“I’ve met her,” says Hannah, too distraught to really try to remember the girl. 

“She put way too much dragon manure when she meant to fertilize it,” he explains. “He’s been complaining ever since.” 

“Since Monday?” shrieks Hannah, looking down on the Screenshap, as distraught as Neville or the plant itself. It’s been four days now--the effects of said intoxication should have worn off by Wednesday evening, tops. 

“Afraid so,” confirms Neville, incredibly blue tone full of concern. 

He backs away a bit to allow her space to check the Screenschap, something she was clearly aching to do, but before she can lean forwards, she stops and turns around, cut short by a set of sneezes. Neville waits patiently, blessing her every time, handing her a handkerchief afterwards--only too late she realizes it was embroidered by hand and seems to be a too fancy tissue for snot. 

“Hope you didn’t catch a cold,” he whispers, oblivious to her thoughts. 

“Can only hope,” she scowls. 

 “This might help,” says Neville, reaching for his wand. 

He points it at Hannah, who eyes it eerily and has to fight the impulse to use the Diarming Charm or set off running away from him, even though rationally, she doesn’t think Neville would ever harm her. And she’s proven right; all he does is point at her robes, performs an intricate hand wave and she immediately feels a hot air stream coming from the wand. Within seconds, her robes and hair are dry, even her fingers, lips and breath are warm again and she finally feels comfortable, her muscles relaxing at least. 

“Wow. Thanks, Neville; really needed that,” she whispers. 

“I could tell,” he chuckles, putting away the wand, on the table, though within reach range. 

He pats the stool by his side and this time she doesn’t even think before accepting the silent invitation. And they resume their previous conversation: she leans in to check the poor plant, its branches squirting slowly as to an useless means to ease the pain, its low growl. 

After only ten seconds or so, she stands up so suddenly that her stool falls to the floor before Neville can’t grab it, not that she cares too much about it. 

“Mrs. Sprout keeps this--” 

“If you’re thinking about a coalesce potion, I’m two steps ahead of you,” stops Neville, aiming at her wrist, though thinks twice before actually grabbing her physically. 

She stops either way thanks to his words, in the middle of the aisle, spinning to stare at him in a shamefully surprised gaze. 

“You mean--?”

“I’ve been treating him with the Integro Potion since I heard about the incident, on Monday afternoon, but I still haven’t got any improvements.” 

“Oh,” whispers Hannah. 

Realizing she should have known Neville would have proceed in such an obvious, literally extracted from a manual, Hannah slowly comes back to the table, grabs the stool from the ground, places it by Neville--closer than its original position, to nobody’s remark--and sits down again. 

“And still no changes?” 

“Afraid not,” sighs Neville, his shoulders down. 

“It’s been too long already,” scowls Hannah, caressing one of the leaves carefully. “What does Mrs. Sprout say about it?” Knowing Neville has obviously asked Mrs. Sprout for help with the plant, she yearns to hear what she said about the Screenshap’s recovery. 

Neville takes a deep breath and just by looking at his livid face, she knows the answer won’t be pleasant or comforting at all. And still, Neville makes the biggest of efforts and forces himself to give her a straight answer. 

Which engages quite the serene, elongated conversation between the two of them, only Herbology related, exchanging tips on the nursing and nourishing of Screenshaps and many other plants throughout the Magical Word that they’ve only heard of. They don’t move from their stools, but they slowly, gradually, get closer, leaning onto each other now and then. 

They don’t even realize time passing by--they’re more in awe by the fact that they’re holding with another human being a peaceful conversation that doesn’t involve, nor evolves at some point, towards the War, the Carrows, or the lame education they’re getting this year at Hogwarts, though it’s clear that they’ve learnt all of this outside the classrooms. Even if they don’t say it out loud, they both agree that it’s nice to find, after the longest of times--months, even--someone to hang around with, someone to speak about nothing and everything at all. They yearned the simplicity of a real, affectionate, kind relationship. It’s tough to confess that a simple phenomena like laughing feels strange, when it’s genuine. 

“WHO’S THERE?!” demands a woman all of a sudden. 

Her yell’s broken the comfortable peace they were becoming to enjoy, a rare, beautiful experience these days; and makes them jump off their stools, preparing to dash through the main door, wands ready at their writing hands, the Protego spell on the tip of Hannah’s tongue. 

“Wait, wait, wait,” begs Neville in a whisper, holding Hannah by the wrist--and this time she doesn’t shriek, or shrug it off, or react in any way to the unexpected touch. 

They both freeze as they her a single set of slow, heavy footsteps coming their way, their wands raised, Neville standing slightly before Hannah in a clearly defensive mode, just in case it does come down to protecting themselves. 

When Professor Sprout appears on the doorstep carrying a heavy Foxglove platter, they all let out a gasp of air, out of fright--it could have been someone else altogether and things could have gone south real fast. 

“Mr. Longbottom, I didn’t think you’d still be here,” scowls Mrs. Sprout. 

 “Let me help you with that, Professor,” says the boy, noticing the woman’s panting voice given the weight she’s carrying. He puts away his wand, grabs the platter from Mrs. Sprout’s hands and, since he’s given no direction, lays it on the closest table, only some feet away from the ill Screenshap. 

“I’m sorry, Professor, I lost track of time,” he apologizes, rubbing his hands against the robes to clean the dirt from the platter. 

“And I see you’ve dragged a companion with you,” adds the Professor, eyeing Hannah. 

“The storm caught me, Professor,” explains her, as Neville goes to stand by her side, still prepared in case she needs a back-up student. 

“Well, it’s stopped now, you better head for the Castle already,” orders Mrs. Sprout, not as stern as her words might show. “Don’t make me put you in detention for being outside the Castle after curfew.” 

Her whispered words are full of genuine concern and plea. More than Neville or Hannah, she would detest to punish them in any way, now that detentions aren’t as innocent as what they used to be here at Hogwarts.

 “Thank you,” they whisper, bowing their heads to the Professor. 

She smiles warmly at them as they spin around and collect their stuff, basically their wands, robes and bags. Neville kneels to grab Hannah’s bag and hands it to her, hanging it from her shoulder. The girl appreciates the kindness with a shy smile and they dash through the greenhouse, despite the prohibition of the Herbology Professor. This time, Neville holds the door open for her and addresses the last words to Mrs. Sprout. 

“Goodnight, Professor.” 

He doesn’t hear the answer, or even if there was any, as he steps outside the greenhouse, following Hannah. Resuming the Herbology talk they run up through the muddy grounds; and when it starts raining again, they don’t even care. They barely notice the freezing drops of water running down their hair and spines, sticking their robes to their skins. 

Only when they reach the Great Hall they reflect on using the Hot-Air Charm on each other to warm up their clothes, hair and bags. Just in case, though they’re certain it must have worked as well as the first time Neville cast it, they make sure their belongings are intact from the rain. On both cases, it seems their books, parchment and quills are safe and sound. 

“Thank Merlin, I don’t think I could write the Potions essay again,” scowls Neville. 

Hannah laughs at that, probably agreeing with him on that one, as they hang their bags from their shoulders without looking away from each other. At the same time, attracted by a thunder or a lightning bolt--couldn’t tell which--they both turn their faces through the doors, staring at the rain for no real reason. Crossing their arms, they lean onto a doorframe each, their dark silhouettes carved against the one-color grey grounds and sky. 

“I didn’t know you liked Herbology that much,” confesses Hannah some minutes later. 

Neville’s not sure if he’s heard her for real beyond the rain. Plus, everyone knows about his passion and the only one subject he’s good at--for some reason, she’s merely stalling and he’s happy to go along with it. 

“Yeah, well, you know, a hobby’s a hobby,” he shrugs it off. “Keep my secret.” 

Hannah turns to face him and Neville answers the same way, noticing a broad grin on her lips. “Oh, it’s a secret?” 

“Yeah,” he nods. “Well, probably the whole school knows--Why?” he demands, a bit frightened upon catching the look on her eyes. 

“Come with me,” she says. 

She grabs his wrist and starts running, Neville having a hard time following her pace. Seeing his clumsiness she sets off giggling--a too joyful sound that echoes through the empty, stone-cold walls from the Entrance Hall. Neville urges her to stop it and she complies, knowing it was out of place, but keeps on running. 

After a few turns, Neville’s completely lost. He couldn’t in a million years tell where the devil are they, not here in the midst of the darkness. 

“Where are we going?” he demands in a whisper. He’s not afraid Hannah would ever lure him into a trap or something--but one can never disregard such possibility given the time they’re living in. 

“You’ve never been down here?” asks Hannah above her shoulder, clearly confused and surprised by his negative answer. “Not once, in seven years?” 

“Should I have?” he replies, noticing the way Hannah’s phrased it, as if he really should have at least stepped into this side of the Castle, merely for being a Hogwarts student. 

“Not even for a late-night snack?” 

“Kitchen’s around here?” he asks, bewildered. 

“Where did you think we Hufflepuffs got our hands on that much food in special occasions?” demands Hannah, now considering him a fool for real. He can almost see her rolling her eyes in the darkness--he’s starting to feel he’s been missing out on a big part of this Castle all his academic years. 

“Actually, never wondered,” he confesses in a whisper. 

He’s spared a response when Hannah stops suddenly in the middle of a hallway, in front of an apparently useless stack of barrels. Understanding where he is, Neville steps backwards and holds his breath; at Hogwarts, nothing’s what it seems and this pile of possibly wine barrels might just be a passageway. On this instance, the entrance to Hufflepuff’s Common Room. 

Hannah looks above her shoulder, as if making sure he’s not sneaking a peek. He’d never dream to learn the code by illicit means, but after doing such a bold move, he can’t help it and stares at her while she opens the passageway. It didn’t make a difference looking at what she did or not, however. Choosing a random barrel, she’s tapped quickly a couple times, a seldom rhythm, and one barrel’s lid has slid opened. Of course, Neville knows there was nothing hazardous about anything from that code; he could spend two hours tapping on different barrels and he still wouldn’t get the passageway to open for him. 

After flashing a lovely smile at him, Hannah jumps into the path that’s opened for them, a low corridor in complete darkness, leading him merely by her steps and giggles once the trapdoor shuts behind Neville. The uncomfortable crouched position surely makes the journey longer than it actually is, though there’s no real way of measuring distances down here. 

That is, until Hannah unlocks another trapdoor in front of them and a dim light bathes the passageway, not bright enough to harm Neville’s eyes. Hannah jumps down, now it’s her who keeps the door open for him, as he descends the two steps and lands on the Common Room. 

He can’t help but compare it to his own Common Room, the only one he knew up until this moment. Light comes from the chimney and torches, but it’s different from the Gryffindor’s, this one’s more natural, cozy--doesn’t feel like it’s raining cats and dogs outside. He’s also welcomed in by warmth, actual ambient temperature, unlike what would happen inside the Gryffindor Tower. As he could have imagined, almost everything in the circular Room is covered in yellow: mantlepieces, pillows, curtains. 

But there’s this one main difference that could never happen in his Common Room and sets his envy to levels he never thought possible within him: there are dozens of plants all around the Room. On numerous shelves, as table centerpieces for the couple desks, hanging from the ceiling and window frames. . . It’s like a private Hufflepuff’s greenhouse and now that he’s seen it, he’d love to have a Gryffindor’s greenhouse. 

“I don’t believe this for a second,” he scowls, still looking around, but painfully aware of Hannah’s presence by his side. “You’ve lived like this for seven years now?!”

That’s exactly the reaction she was waiting for, though she’s too shy to confess it, since she drops her gaze to her feet as Neville looks at her again, bewildered. 

“The place’s has always been like this, so I’ve been told.” 

“Merlin, I’d love to have this Common Room,” whispers Neville, rotating around himself to still let sink in his surroundings. “I wish I’d known sever years ago. I would have begged to be sorted into Hufflepuff.”

“I wouldn’t have mind, being honest,” she whispers. 

That answer gets him to stop admiring the Room he’s in and pay attention to the blonde girl beside him, who’s blushing slightly, head dropped, a couple flocks of hair covering her face from his view even more effectively. 

They’re both saved from this conversation by the arrival of a boy a head taller than Neville and twice his size--one of the Quidditch team members, he can’t put his finger on the boy’s name. But the boy doesn’t realize he’s cut their conversation short, either, so they’re both on the same courtesy level. 

“Hannah, there you are. We were starting to worry.” 

“Appreciate it, but as you can see, for once I didn’t get a detention,” she replies, signaling for Neville with her head. “Just got caught in the storm."

 The explanation doesn’t seem to satisfy the boy, but he can’t insist on it without stepping into rudeness, so he turns his attention towards their guest, realizing he’s been standing there out of the loop. Curiosity towards Hannah’s story and whereabouts doesn’t lead to bad manners towards a guest. 

 “I see. Longbottom, isn’t it?” 

“Neville,” he replies. 

 “Nice meeting you,” says the boy without thinking about introducing himself, dropping his hand. “Well, you’ve missed dinner--” 

“No way,” scowls Hannah, grabbing him by the shoulder. “It’s that late?” 

“Should have check the hour,” chuckles the boy upon seeing her terrified gaze; after a whole afternoon out in the cold, she was clearly looking forward to eating something. “Thankfully, kitchen’s only a stone away, let me grab something for you and your guest, OK?”

“Please, that’s not--” Neville tries to stop, though doesn’t know why he even attempts to. 

“I insist,” the boy interjects and the argument stops right there, as he turns around to address the whole Common Room in general, raising his voice. “Hey, guys, want anything from the kitchens?” 

Some people raise their heads, attracted by the succulent proposal and bear fruiting expedition. 

“Yeah, some snacks would be great,” says a younger boy. 

“And couple butterbeers while you’re at it,” adds a woman, seventh-year for certain. 

“Hold on, I’ll give you a hand,” says another boy sitting on an armchair. He lays aside the newspapers he was reading and stands at once.

 “Thanks--nice to see not everyone's forgot their manners,” appreciates the boy who’s received Neville in the first place. “Be right back, then. And you lazy cows, how ‘bout some respect? We have a guest, in case you hadn’t noticed.” 

The boy disappears through the passageway before he can tell he was joking--though Neville knows that he wasn’t--and so Neville is almost rudely interrupted in his attempts at refusing the couple of seats he and Hannah have been offered by two younger female students, arguing they need a comfortable space to eat. 

Since Neville can’t really refute that logic, he prefers move along to another subject altogether and utters the first thought that popped out into his mind the moment he stumbled across this magnificent Common Room. 

“How can you keep all those plants?” he demands. “Those and those,” he signals for two specific types, one hanging from a window pane and the other decorating the walls, “grow at different seasoning times.” 

The Hufflepuffs surrounding him nod, acknowledging the fact and that he’s remarked on that one curiosity. And as soon as a fourth-year girl starts explaining it all to him, Neville is just too caught up with her reasoning; no-one’s questioned his presence here in their Common Room, or mentioned that he might be an unwanted burden. Any unsaid issues are quickly forgotten thanks to the conversation going on, what with Hannah and Neville at the epicenter of the discussion, one that a lot of Hufflepuff students appreciate holding, since it distracts them from homework, studying, or worse things.


	50. Chapter 50

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aberforth Dumbledore's POV, after receiving the unwanted visit of Harry, Hermione and Ronald. Bashing until Voldemort's message is heard all around and the events escalate.

Hogsmeade sleeps. 

Or so the Death Eaters would like to thing, but reality is far from their desires. 

Because the stillness and quiet of tonight, Aberforth knows--feels--is nothing like the eery calmness that’s hovered over the small village since last summer. Something’s brewing. Something is about to happen, immediately, that will change the course of this War. It’s just the quiet before the storm; they’re right in the eye of the hurricane. 

The wise thing to do at this point, really, is to flee. Get out of here now before Death Eaters come and go from all sides and directions and fighting, or rather dying, is unavoidable. 

He certainly wanted to leave Hogsmeade and all his life behind him--without much remorse, truth be told--and would have achieved his plans hadn’t some old memories and reproaches come to mind and failed his nerve. As in shock, he’s dropped to one chair and hasn’t budged from it, apart from summoning two bottles of Firewhiskey on a row, despite the feeble attempts from his sister to make him reconsider. Now, who knows how much later it is, he realizes he’s missed his chance--he’s in no condition of traveling. 

Neither drinking nor traveling, however, would have been successful in his attempt of forgetting some of the painful words the young Potter boy’s said to him before headed to Hogwarts. ‘You’ve given up on everything and everyone’ being one of the worse sentences the booze hasn’t been able to erase from his mind just yet. 

“Oh, what would he know,” scowls the man, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “He’s just a clueless, arrogant brat. He knows nothing about us or our lives. He doesn’t know--” 

“He’s known suffering too, Aberforth,” tries to reason sweetly the young girl from the portrait. 

“That doesn’t give him the right to do and say whatever he likes!” yells Aberforth. He tries to stand up to be eye level with his sister, but his legs tremble and he falls to the chair again. To cope with it all, he drinks another sip of Firewhiskey. “He can’t come in here, risking my life in the process, acting like the wise man and claiming what Albus felt or did not feel. I know my brother. I knew exactly what he did and why.” 

“Did you, now?” 

He’s had with her more conversations than he could count; definitely, he’s talked to her more than to any of his clients. And over the years he’s forgotten if the portrait’s just a painting, if it’s really her sister, or if it’s only a partial part of his sister’s thoughts and way of being--he doesn’t mind anymore. At least he’s not all alone in here. 

“I understood him and his reasons better than anyone! Specially better than that punk little boy or that old fool of Elphias.” 

He refuses to believe that flat out lie. Albus never showed remorse for his sister’s death. He never even acted like he cared--not once in his entire life. The Potter boy surely just said those things because he thought he could get Aberforth’s help on his suicidal mission. 

“Please, Aberforth, isn’t it time already to put things in the past? Harry Potter did say--” 

“Why, of course, Ariana, let’s not dwell in the past--let’s look forward. If the Great Harry Potter said so. Wanna join him in his Crusade, while you’re at it? D’you reckon it’s what needs to be done here?” 

“It is the right thing to do, Aberforth.” 

“He’s a fool!” he yells. “It’s a stupid, useless quest, Ariana! My brother trusted him with it--that’s all the proof you need!”

“Please, my brother, if there’s still a chance--” 

“A chance for WHAT, exactly?!” 

“Not letting the evil win! Again!” 

“Look around you, Ariana--Evil has won already! Dark Ages will hover us again and there’s nothing we can do about it! Thank Merlin for being already dead.” 

Some part of his mind registers he’s been too harsh; his sister doesn’t deserve punishment because of the booze or an idiotic older brother who in the end didn’t prove to be better than Albus. And though his words ought to hurt Ariana, she doesn’t let him know for a second. 

“Well, there’s someone who disagrees with you.” 

“A seventeen-year-old kid, for Merlin’s sake!” 

“Harry Potter’s right now at Hogwarts, thinking he stands a chance against Lord Voldemort,” reminds warmly, yet sternly, Ariana. “He hasn’t been on the run all these months--he was fighting, against all odds, to face the Dark Lord. He didn’t flee and hide in a remote island or cave: he’s proven to you he’s way stronger than you ever were! And if that brave, young man thinks there’s the slightest chance of winning--” 

“Oh, please, Ariana--the boy’s just blind! All these months fighting, you say? Stupidity and recklessness! You know as well as I do there’s no chance at winning this!” 

“Aberforth, maybe it is you, who’s just being a stupid little boy.” 

“I’m telling the truth, when he’s not able to see it!” 

“And he’s saying there’s a chance at fighting that you deny to see!” 

“Ariana,” he begs, taking a deep breath, lowering his voice, “Albus left him a quest, a magical way of stopping Lord Voldemort. To take down such a Dark Wizard isn't a matter of waving your wand, cast an Expelliarmus and hope for the best. It’s clear as water that Albus’s stupidity and desires of grandeur blinded the poor lad as well. You know that! He’s seen what Dark Magic can do and still he won’t see reason--he doesn’t stand a single chance!” 

Gasping for air, Aberforth slowly falls into the chair, holding onto the edge of the table, grabbing once again the bottle of Firewhiskey. This time, Ariana doesn’t seem to have any other word of advice for him and looks down on her older brother, apologetic, almost in despair, wishing to know what to do, wishing to be able to do something for him. 

“Doesn’t see we’re all doomed,” resumes the old man in a defeated whisper, staring blankly at the portrait on the wall. “Just like old Albus. Voldemort’s won and that’s that. Here’s to another age of glory,” he scowls finally, raising the bottle to Ariana’s portrait and drinking until he’s almost out of breath. 

Panting, he throws it against the wall, smashing the bottle into a million pieces--had just emptied the whole bottle. Leans into the table, trying to clear his head. He couldn’t have asked for a better remedy to his pain than the cold, vicious, murderous, dead voice that all of a sudden fills the air, sending shivers up to his spine. And though he’s never heard this voice first-handedly before, he knows right that second who it belongs to. 

“I know that you are preparing to fight. Your efforts are futile. You cannot fight me. I do not want to kill you. I have great respect for the teachers of Hogwarts. I do not want to spill magical blood. Give me Harry Potter, and none shall be harmed. Give me Harry Potter and I shall leave the school untouched. Give me Harry Potter, and you will be rewarded. You have until midnight.” 

The Death Eaters’s presence from the village has vanished, though their protective and detection spells, are most certainly not. But that means only one thing--the message was real. Voldemort’s bringing together all his soldiers to Hogwarts. There will most certainly be a fight. Maybe even if someone, or the boy himself, turns Harry Potter in to the Dark Lord. 

“That suicidal imbecile,” he scowls, raising from the chair. 

But he isn’t sure why he did that. His first instinct is to check the clock--there’s still some time left until midnight, he thinks.

 _Time for what?_ asks the rational voice, the one he wouldn’t know if it’s Ariana or his own mind playing tricks on him. He looks around, trying to look for the answer--time to flee? Time to get ready for dying? Time to prepare himself to fight? 

Non-verbally, unconsciously, he’s cast all the lights in the room to lit, checking for his wand, his traveling suitcase, his options to get to Hogwarts. And at that moment he realizes Ariana’s portrait’s been empty for a while, since she is only a small, white dot in the background of the picture, coming this way. And once more, she’s not alone--who the hell is she bringing in now? More injured students? Battle’s not started yet. 

He waits standing in the middle of the living room, eyebrows frowned more by the second, until finally, the picture frames only Ariana’s head and shoulders. 

“Aberforth, they seek refuge,” says her smoothly, almost begging, and with a gesture of her head, she allows the opening of the passageway. 

One Hogwarts student from Slytherin jumps from the gate, nervous and undecided, followed by a second one, a third one, and then a fourth one. They just keep coming and coming, whispering among themselves, spreading out all around the living room without saying anything to or looking at Aberforth, despite some of them realizing they’re arriving at his home. 

“HEY!” shouts the man when he can react, over the racket of a couple dozens of Hogwart’s underage students from all Houses. “May I know what’s going on here?! Why have you all decided it was alright to invade my house?!” 

And considering that the line of students is yet not finished, everyone present at the living room shuts up at once, turning towards the man, though no-one dares to speak for a long time, afraid if this represents some menace to them all as well--however, some of them see the resemblance between this man and their former Headmaster, but do not dare to mention it out. 

“Battle’s taking place at Hogwarts,” says one of the older students. 

“Didn’t see it was better to give the Dark Lord what he wanted, did you?” scowls Aberforth. 

“That’s the lowest thing we could have done!” shouts a young boy at once. 

In the middle of the living room a heated discussion takes place amongst all the students, from all places, offering every possible point of view on the matter--an argument Aberforth didn’t wish to have after getting angry with his own sister. They only shut up after one of Aberforth’s loud, authoritative yells. 

“May I know why that implies your presence here?” he demands coldly. 

“They’re evacuating the Castle,” explains the boy who’s spoken first. “Staff’s considered this is the best and safest way to get us out of harm’s way.” 

Aberforth doesn’t have to ask the question out loud to simply know Potter was the one who mentioned this particular way out and suggested the staff to take it. Despite of including in the list of refugees numerous Death Eaters and sons of known Death Eaters. That boy just can’t add two and two. He’s the kind of person who’ll always make things worse while trying to fix them--that’s been proven time and time again. That’s why everyone’s facing a War, for Goodness sake. 

“Guess it’s futile to discuss it right now,” he scowls, getting his wand. At the sight of it some youngest children step away from him in fright, letting out involuntary yelps--Aberforth doesn’t waste his time explaining they’ve got nothing to fear from him. “OK, hear me out. I’m casting Silencing Charms around my whole house--and I’ll be casting also containing spells not to let any of you leave this place,” he adds, eyeing wearily the Slytherin students section. “You’ve come here seeking refuge, so these are my rules: you, the oldest ones--take care of the young. Don’t let them panic, don’t let them leave and spread panic around the village. Stay inside, don’t move, until someone comes to look for you. I don’t want to see around any underage student, or things will get nasty for all of you.” 

He doesn’t waste time saying goodbye to the children or give them false hope of surviving this fricking Battle; with a bit of effort, climbs up the passageway, still open, as even more students are filing out of it. 

“Let an old man through!” he yells, running as fast as his old legs allow him. Most of the students are wise enough to move aside to allow him space, but others don’t act so quickly and are painfully crashed against the cold rock walls. “Don’t they teach manners at Hogwarts anymore?!” he scowls. But, despite his complaints, he doesn’t realize he didn’t even take a second to think before headed towards the eye of the War.


	51. Chapter 51

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Voldemort's death, signaling the end of the War, from a point of view who's lacked representation throughout the series: Madame Pomfrey.

In utter disbelief, everyone sees him falling in slow motion, almost as if someone’d cast the “Arresto Momentum” spell for no apparent reason. Everyone’d been hanging in every word uttered, impossible to miss in the dead silence of the half-destroyed Great Hall. Everyone’s watched them circling each other around the runes, the remainders opponents surrounding them, and heard them cast their spells, seen both green and red lights, seen the connection between the two wands and seen, to no-one’s understanding, how the Killing Curse rebounded and hit its author, and seen the Dark Lord hit the ground, presumably dead. 

It takes a moment for that to really sink in every fighter’s mind --but when it does, there’s a literal uproar. People all around start chanting, clapping, cheering blissfully with tears in their eyes, hugging whoever’s closest, everyone circling Mr. Potter, some wizards releasing their wands as a definite sign that the battle’s over, others in the other hand, are still too tense they can’t even hold their wands softer and in their white knuckles. Some sit down on the ground aware of their injuries. Others drop to the floor. Families and friends reunite, the words “He’s dead”, “It’s over now” hovering the air, in disbelieving whispers, in loud shouts throughout the Great Hall, even stammered to a family member’s ear who’s received a fatal Cruciatus seconds before the Dark Lord fell. Injured people now checking the wounds they couldn’t reassess earlier as some Death Eater or another was casting yet one more Killing Curse. 

They cast mattresses and summon the remainders of healing potions from the hospital and Potion’s classroom, and some food and drinks from the kitchens, and everyone slowly finds a place to sit and rest, in silence or talking cautiously to friends and family, breathing freely now. The younger wizards wait patiently for the elderly ones to check the most injured people before assessing the minor injuries. Only then people start to realize the presence of some Slytherin students, who must have come back undetected --doesn’t matter now, since they may have meant a life for someone, and it’s clear to everyone they’re not the enemy hear. Madame Pomfrey walks around, offering all she’s got, but for the emotional pain every one last of them is suffering, she’s got only nice words or comforting silence, depending on the patient. 

She’s lost track of one of the most crucial patients there is, and partially she blames herself for it, but she doesn’t dare to look for him when other students in front of her heed urgent medical attention. But when she spots him at the entrance, obviously with Ms. Granger and Mr. Weasley, she instantly forgets whom and what’s in front of her or blocking her way towards him. “Mr. Potter, don’t you dare run away from me,” she shouts from across the Hall, seeing that was his intention. “At least, not until I’ve checked the three of you.” 

“You can start with them,” he offers, stepping away from the nurse and trying to use Mr. Weasley as cover. 

“Today’s not the day for jokes,” replies her. “Now, lay down,” she orders, producing yet another mattress. 

“I assure you I’m fine,” says Harry while trying to get the nurse’s hands away from him. 

“We should know in a matter of seconds.” She finally gets a hold of him and pushes Harry, not so gallantly despite being her patient as she so claims, towards the mattress. 

“Please, I don’t need this. Actually, I wanted to go--” 

“Nowhere, I would think,” she snaps, forcing him to lay down. 

“Look, give me five minutes and then you’ll find me in my dormitory, sound asleep. How does that sound? I’m serious,” suggests Harry, though he sees as clearly as anybody he’s already lost that battle. 

“Mr. Potter, I don’t care if you’re the Boy Who Lived, the Defeater of the Dark Lord, or Merlin’s heir, here you are my patient and always will be. You died a few hours ago, you are staying on this bed till you get my say so.” 

“That I can do,” whispers Harry, finally giving up his efforts of standing up. While Madame Pomfrey catches her breath before starting the check up, Harry looks around, concerned, his gaze falling into the numerous other mattresses around the Great Hall. “How many other patients do you have?” he asks. Not trying to send her away to some more urgent injured, but truly preoccupied by their losses. 

Understanding, Madame Pomfrey gives him an answer that he wouldn’t have received would it be any other day. “A few, nothing I can’t handle.” 

“And--”

“You seem fine to me, Mr. Potter, but you do need to get some rest. If you’ll excuse me, I have your friends Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger to check on,” she adds, looking sternly at the pair, expecting no kind of fight from them. “I should be waking you up in an hour.” 

Harry grunts in exasperation, eyes already closed. “That’s not exactly the deep sleep I was looking forward to--” 

“To make sure you haven’t died again,” interjects Madame Pomfrey with severity. And Harry can’t dispute this, she’s got a point. Also, he’s terribly tired. Anything he was planning to do can wait, now. Nothing else is a matter of life and death anymore, they can just take it easy, incredibly easy, for a while. A few hours of sleep, recovering from everything they’ve suffered these pasts months, won’t change much. Or weeks. After all, they’ve survived a bloody War. If you can count this as a survival, that is. There is much work to do, and it will take some time to everyone here present, but he’s certain in a more or less imminent future, things will be well enough.


	52. Chapter 52

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morning (afternoon, really) after the War ends, everyone starts to come to terms with the events that have just happened, including one Harry trying to make things up with Ginny.

Eggs with bacon, toasts and a glass of milk; that simple meal constitutes for him, at this point, the perfect breakfast--even if it’s 3pm. Which pretty much shows how’s he been living the past few months, away from any place he could consider homey, barely ever getting any nutrient meals. Blissfully, everything’s over now, as of today--merely hours, in fact. Still feels like a dream. But the evil presence’s gone for good, there aren’t Death Eaters roaming around and his scar doesn’t hurt anymore, hence implying the end of that particular connection with Voldemort. Hard to believe, but it’s over now. 

“Does the Master want anything else?” asks Kreacher, who’s been standing by the bed edge staring at him eat with a worried look on his face--the house-elves are used at getting much more specific demands from their masters for their meals. 

“This is perfect,” promises Harry, his mouth full--he’s finished his breakfast in less than five minutes. “Delicious, really. Thank you.” 

The house-elf bows at him and reaches for the dishes. He’s been awfully obliging since Harry’s woken up, a luxury he’d long forgotten due to the horcrux hunt. Though he doesn’t feel much of a master or a person who could own a house-elf; he’s slept in his own clothes, his hair is a terrible mess, he desperately needs a shower and maybe some more hours to sleep, he’ll need to regain a couple kilos to be considered healthy after this dreadful experience. 

“Really, Kreacher, that’s it for now, thanks; I’m full. But do come back, please,” Harry asks, knowing Kreacher was headed for the kitchens to wash the dishes. Whether he does it or not, he disappears and appears again in a matter of seconds, with the usual popping sound, bowing again at him. 

“Anything else, sir?” 

“Only thought you should prepare a fair amount of breakfast meals, for when everyone starts waking up,” he suggests, too tired to make it look as if he were joking. 

He notices in Kreacher’s tone how he tries to hide a chuckle. “We’re on it, sir--many students and teachers have already had breakfast.” 

That piece of news brings Harry to the exact subject he was hoping to discuss sooner or later with somebody. 

“Do you know how many dead?” he asks slowly. Fearing the answer, but was absolutely compelled to ask--every single loss, student, staff or otherwise, is on his hands. 

In spite of his reluctancy, Kreacher answers dutifully. Knew it might distress his master, something he really shouldn’t allow, and yet is forced to give him a straight answer. “Maybe a dozen more students, master.” 

Harry’s heart sinks into Hogwarts grounds; barely two dozen people’s lives are gone now because of him. If he didn’t know for sure that Ginny, Ron and Hermione, the rest of the Weasley family and his classmates are all safe and sound--he felt compelled to check that out before vanishing to sleep for a decade--he’d drop dead right this instance, no matter what his efforts were for. 

“And injured?” he presses. He needs to know everything. 

That’s obviously an easier subject, for the both of them; and Kreacher doesn’t hesitate this time to give him a straight answer. 

“Some,” he confesses, before alleviating any of Harry’s distress. “Nothing Madame Pomfrey or us the house-elves can’t handle, sir. I can give you a sleeping potion should you need none, master,” he suggests then, clearly an attempt at changing the subject, upon seeing his distraught face. 

“That won’t be necessary, Kreacher. There are some things I need to do,” replies him, rather sharply. 

For the first time, the house-elf doesn’t abide the indirect order. On the contrary, he looks up at his master, reluctant. And his suggestion is certainly something he wouldn’t dare to say had his master been any other wizard. 

“Surely they can wait, sir?” he tries to stop him, following what he considers the best medical treatment for him. “Madame Pomfrey did order you to get some hours of sleep.” 

“And I promise you, I’ve slept far better and far more than in the past seven months,” says Harry, trying to get out of bed. Kreacher doesn’t move, hence blocking his options of standing up and walking away. “Kreacher, step aside,” he orders, warning what he’d be able to do without needing to say any of it out loud. “Get back to the kitchens and see if someone needs you.” 

Even if it was the last idea on Kreacher’s mind, he does’t hesitate for a second before bowing and finally vanishes from the dormitory, this time for good. Harry can finally take a deep breath and close his eyes--without the dormant fear of facing a Death Eater before him when he opens them. 

Either way, his senses are still on point, a remnant of these past months spent on hiper-vigilant mode, reacting to every single strange sound he hears, or senses, around him or close to him. This time, a low rumble downstairs, barely audible, makes him jump out of bed and grab his wand from the nightstand, in a reflex reaction that he knows won’t leave him easily nor soon. 

He descends to the Common Room with the wand at the ready, the ‘Expelliarmus’ spell on the tip of his tongue, wondering where on Earth did he lose the Invisibility Cloak and whether or not should he summon it. 

None of the spells are necessary; Luna’s standing calmly in the midst of the room, peaceful look on her face, arms crossed behind her back, shifting her weight from one foot to another, eyeing with curiosity the furniture of the half-destroyed Common Room. 

“Luna,” he sighs, leaning into the wall and dropping the wand, a bit scared of what he might have done out of fright. 

“Harry,” greets Luna, smiling fondly at him--a sight he’d feared he’d last seen before the start of the War. 

“How did you come in?” 

“All portraits are taking a day off,” she laughs. 

“That explains it,” agrees Harry, his chuckle barely audible. “And why are you here?” 

“Well, you’re the talk of the town and no-one’s seen you in quite some time.” 

“Oh, God,” scowls Harry, running a hand through his tired face. “I thought I could really get some quiet from now on. I can’t show up out there now.”

“If you don’t want to be on the spotlight, no,” chuckles Luna. “Were you headed out?” 

“As a matter of fact, yes.” 

“Apparate, then,” suggests Luna. “All the wards are down--might be the only time we can Disapparate within school grounds.” 

“Guess that’s the solution,” says Harry, breathing in deeply. “Did you want something else?” he asks since Luna’s still standing there, uncomplaining. 

“I was looking for a place to sleep, to be honest,” she confesses, in her usual low, acute and soft voice. 

“You haven’t--” 

“Tried, but couldn’t,” she shrugs. “The sleep-over down at the Great Hall wasn’t really working for me. The younger students needed it,” she adds as an explanation for the sleeping arrangements, though Harry needn’t one; he understands. If he hadn’t been so tired that he could have dropped sound asleep at any place, he’d have asked for it too. 

“Well, be my guest,” he says, signaling for the stairs. “Sixth floor’s boys dorm’s quite warm, Kreacher’s set a heater. Ask for him if you need anything.” 

“Thanks,” appreciates Luna, touching briefly his arm as she walks by him. 

“Sleep tight,” says Harry. 

“I’ll try,” answers Luna, already on the stairs first steps. 

Alone again, Harry waits until the sound of her footsteps vanish and breathes in a couple times, his heart sinking upon seeing the mess that used to be his Common Room, now half-destroyed, the happiest place he ever slept on as a child. 

His safe haven and resting place gone now, handed over to Luna, he heads out, reflecting on the fact that he didn’t use this perfect opportunity to thank her for everything she did while he, Ron and Hermione were away, or to talk about the War--but having a couple errand he has to do. 

Protecting the Gryffindor Tower task forgotten, the only mission the Fat Lady had today was, apparently, notice his presence upon leaving the tower and letting know every painting in the corridor. All damsels, philosophers and knights from the portraits turn towards him in awe and start a round of applause and cheering, standing up and bowing at him. Even some of the Castle’s ghosts are appearing from the corners to congratulate and talk to him. Harry can’t take this today, this celebration over winning the battle, he’s not in the mood. 

Without a word, he drops his head and Disapparates out of there, confirming Luna’s words. All wards have been destroyed throughout the battle and no-one’s thought of restoring them, all dangers past. 

He first lands on the fields by the Great Hall, though there isn’t much of a difference between outside and inside, what with the ceiling and two-quarters of the walls destroyed. There’s only one small area cleared out from the rubbish and runes, where two lines of bodies have been deposited, covered with what was at hand--sheets, robes, the House banners that used to hang from the ceiling. He can also see the remnants of the sleep-over Luna talked about: many mattresses and sleeping bags piled up on one side, belonging to those who’ve already woken up. Coming from the entrance Hall, he can hear some deep breathings from the lucky ones who are still sleeping it off. 

All of a sudden a soft melody rises, a flute. It can only come from one place and so, he disapparates again, preferably before someone notices his presence, and appears some yards before Hagrid’s hut, clearly visible so the half-giant isn’t startled. Sitting on the trunk of a cut-in-half tree, he was playing for Fang and himself, but stops upon seeing Harry approaching. 

The dog raises his big head towards him and barks once before dropping to the ground again, which is as much a greeting Harry will ever get. He pats his head before facing Hagrid, who, big smile, roaring from laughter and joy, embraces Harry, rising him some feet from the ground, almost breaking his spine in two. 

“Oh, boy,” he exclaims as he drops Harry on the ground again. “Who’d ‘ave thought it, huh? Seven years ago, who would ‘ave thought it?” 

“Not me, that’s for sure,” laughs Harry, sitting down on the grass, by the trunk. “How’re you doing?” he asks firstly. 

He eyes with concern the injuries and cuts over Hagrid’s face and palms, which don’t seem to bother the half-giant that much, since he takes a general look around them all with a dismissive look and grabs his flute again. 

“Nothing to worry about,” he replies. “And yeh?” he pats on Harry’s shoulders, without considering his strength might break the poor boy down to pieces. 

“I’ll be alright,” says Harry. “And how’s Grawp?” He doesn’t know at what point in his wizardry life did he get used to speaking about a giant as easily as if that creature were amongst them, but it seems he has. The tales he could have said to his eight-years self and would never believe. 

“Back in the Forest. Found home all by himself, he did,” says Hagrid, not being able to conceive his pride. “He’d missed it, I could tell.” 

“Will he be safe out there?” 

“Nah, creatures are all calm now. One War was enough; no-one wants to keep fightin’.” 

“Glad it worked out,” Harry whispers. Despite what people might think upon taking a look at his defeated face, he is truly happy about Hagrid’s half-brother--the only reason why he might feel joyful today. 

They fall silent, staring at the grounds in front of them, the Forbidden Forest, the Great Lake, now that they can take the time to appreciate the beautiful world surrounding them when no-one’s attempting to killing them. Fang rises his head to rest onto Harry’s knee and he scratches mindlessly a spot behind the dog’s ears, which seems to please him. 

“Blimey, Harry,” scowls Hagrid some minutes later and Harry knows they’ve just moved along to the War subject, one he’d have loved to avoid for the time being, or the next few years, at least. “Wha’ the devil were you thinking? Surrend’ring like that?” 

“I had to,” he says. “I couldn’t let anyone else die for me.” 

“But it wasn’t for yeh, Harry, don’ yeh see? It was for a greater good. No-one wanted You-Know-Who to win, so naturally--” 

“Naturally, I had to surrender myself,” he interjects. 

“Please, Harry. . . ‘Aven’t you learnt anything ‘ere at school or with the Order? Sacrifice is meaningful when it’s necessary to a cause, otherwise it’s useless, if yeh’re just wasting your life.” 

“Alright, alright!” exclaims Harry in the end, tired of drama, since he knows he’ll be discussing this and many other issues of the War till the day he dies. “I’m sorry. There. I wasn’t thinking.” 

“You obviously weren’t,” confirms Hagrid in a scowl, though appreciating the honesty with a nod of his head. “Don’ say that too loud--that’s not somethin’ the Defeater of the Dark Lord shou’d be ‘eard saying.” 

“What did you just call me?” demands Harry coldly. 

“Wha--”

“That nickname. Where’d you get it from?” 

“Blimey, Harry, nowhere, but you are, aren’t ya?” he demands, winking at him. “Not many hours ago you killed You-Know-Who--”

“I didn’t kill anyone!” shrieks Harry. He stands up and starts pacing in circles around Hagrid and the tree, while his friend stares at him in shock. 

“My eyes don’ deceive me, Harry--I know wha--” 

“I didn’t kill him. I didn’t cast the Avada Kedavra.” 

“How’d yeh explain that ‘e’s dead, huh? ‘Cause his corpse ‘as been taken away by Ministry officers, who declared him deceased, you know.” 

“I don’t claim that title,” resumes Harry in a low, defeated, tired voice, sitting down by Hagrid’s side again. “I don’t want to be remember for this. Don’t call me that,” he begs, rather sharply. Hagrid turns towards him with, he can tell, an astonished look on him, not understanding what’s bugged him. He himself doesn’t really know; the one thing on his mind is that he doesn’t want another stupid title on his resumé. 

Behind him, the hut’s door creaks open and Harry turns around, surprise taking over the bad humor. Hagrid would have told him if he had a visitor over. 

“Morning, Neville!” exclaims Hagrid, his shock vanished, replaced by good temper and manners. “Did you get some sleep?” 

“I did, thank you,” says the boy, suppressing a yawn, his clothes all filthy and wrinkled by the position or place he’s slept in. “Right until someone woke me with his yelling,” he adds, eyeing Harry. 

The mentioned by scowls under his breath, yet something else he’ll live to regret, before standing up and getting closer to Neville, leaning onto the doorframe, while Harry does the same against a close-by tree. 

“Sorry, man,” he apologizes. 

“Thought the bad mood and pessimism wouldn’t be a thing after Voldemort’s death,” says Neville, clearly as a reproach. 

“It won’t from now on,” promises Harry, avoiding Neville’s gaze, because he fears he’s just said the biggest lie in history. He feels nothing close to rejoicing, “just had a very bad few months.” 

“I understand,” says Neville, kicking him on the shoulder, obviously overlooking the fact that he’d be entitled to reason Harry hasn’t been the only one with a hell of a year. But he’s too polite to say so out loud and prefers changing the subject. “Well, I’m famished. Think I’ll sneak into the kitchens and smuggle something out.” 

“No need for a break-in plan,” replies Harry in a chuckle. “House-elves are on high alert assisting everybody, just ask anyone.” 

“Will do, thanks,” he says, stepping down the hut’s stairs, before spinning around and face Harry again, reaching out a hand. “Congratulations, by the way. You know, for winning the War,” he insists with eyebrows raised, almost touching his hair. 

Harry lets out a humorless laugh as he allows Neville to take his hand and shake them. 

“Not at all. It wouldn’t have been possible hadn’t it been for you, Neville, be sure of that. I’ll see myself the world knows the truth--that your grandmother does.” 

“We’ll talk about it,” he accepts grudgingly, taking responsibility for his part in the War as easily as Harry’s doing it. “Bye.” 

They all bid farewell with simple nods of their heads. Harry and Hagrid watch him go, walking with uneasy step, slowly, and figure it’ll take him at least ten minutes more than usual to get to the Castle. But there’s no hurry anymore; no danger behind, no rush to get somewhere safe before they get killed. 

“And yeh? D’yeh manage to sleep somewhat?” asks Hagrid as Harry sits down again on the fallen tree. 

“Few hours, yeah. Up in my dorms. My last year’s dorm, actually. Listen, is it really normal for Neville to come down here to sleep in your cabin?” he ends up asking, even if he knows it’s none of his business, not standing this casual chit-chat. 

He was expecting a negative answer--a one-time event, tops--and that’s why he’s so surprised by Hagrid’s explanation. 

“Yeah, ‘e came quite often, this year--got a second bed for ‘im and ev’rything. The Carrows didn’ dare to come ‘ere to fight me, not after I knocked him out when ‘e tried to Stupify me. Not a single cell on their brains, those two--neve’ learnt not to tickle a half-giant. And that dam’ ‘eadmaster was wise not to show his face ‘round ‘ere either.”

Harry’s heart sinks to the ground thinking about Severus Snape and remembering all what he learnt last night. He hasn’t got a chance to share it with anyone, but he must start somewhere, if he wants to exonerate his actions and mistakes. Seems like Hagrid’s the first person to break it to. 

“Hagrid, you know, we might have to talk about Snape,” he whispers. 

“Don’ mention his name. I still haven’ forgiven ‘im for what ‘e did and I don’ think I’ll ever do.” 

“But he wasn’t a traitor, Hagrid--” 

“You’re right, he was much, much worse. He killed Albus!” he roars, his hands in tight fists. And it’s better this way, actually; if he were to start kicking something, Harry’d perish under his hands when he managed to survive despite being the target of a Dark Lord. 

“Killing him was only part of his cover--Dumbledore wanted Snape to--” 

“Harry, I neve’ thought I’d ‘ear you defending that man, much less after what he did during the War!” roars a frenzied, shocked Hagrid. 

Upon seeing that reaction, Harry reckons it’s better to let this one argument go. He was aware it wouldn’t have been easy in any case. 

“Okay. You might be right.” 

“I am right,” scowls Hagrid and Harry rolls his eyes, changing the subject. 

“So, who else is in there?” he asks, signaling the hut with a nod of his head. 

Hagrid’s infuriated expression changes within changes into a wide grin, cocking his head. 

“Lookin’ for someone in particular?” 

“Hagrid--” begs Harry, dropping his head to avoid Hagrid’s more than likely reproaching gaze. 

“Yeh know, I’ve chat with ‘er quite often, this year. Trying to make ‘er understand--even if I myself didn’ understand it.” 

Harry runs a nervous hand through his messy hair, in a movement too similar as to what Hagrid was used to seeing at Order meetings from James Potter--but he does well not to mention it. 

“I wouldn’t have been at peace with myself if I hadn’t done it, Hagrid. You have to--” 

The half-giant interjects him. 

“Don’ ask me to understand. Bu’ either way, I respect you, so there’s that,” he resumes, shrugging the subject off quite fast. “And ‘ere’s the person who has to,” he adds. 

Harry’s head shoots right up to see Ginny on the hut’s doorframe, three times her height, tying the school robes around her waist, though it’s quite warm at the moment. Harry stands as the two lock eyes, rubbing his hands against his legs, uncertain and anxious. It’s not their official reunion--they’ve seen each other beforehand and spoken couple times throughout the War--but it is, actually. Harry feels as if he’s rediscovering Ginny’s natural beauty and elegance and charm, as if he were looking at her for the first time ever, or through new eyes--with the perspective of the War and the fear of never seeing each other again. 

Funnily enough, Hagrid’s the first one to break the ice. He doesn’t engage into another amiable conversation with Ginny, that’d be too awkward for the three of them, but he clears his throat, pushes Harry forward--in a gesture aimed at encouraging him, though it sends Harry face-first against the ground--and resumes playing his flute, the same calm and beautiful melody from earlier. 

Harry signals with his head to the other side of the cabin, the pumpkin field, for privacy, and Ginny, after considering the proposal for half a second, leads the way. The melody now a soft, background music for their conversation, at one point Ginny spins around to face Harry--luckily he’d left enough space and doesn’t bump into her. 

She stands and gazes piercingly at him, on an obvious defensive mode, arms crossed. The only conversations they’ve held during the battle weren’t precisely polite or amiable; and the fact that he attempted, and luckily failed, to sacrifice himself hovers over them. 

“First off,” starts Harry with shaky voice. “It’s so great to see you safe and sound and--” 

His voice slowly fades away; he felt too awkward, nor his words made any sense. If they were meant for a stranger, they’d be acceptable. Otherwise, it just showed his stupidity. 

“Spit it out,” scowls Ginny, staring at her feet in order to be able to clear her mind, putting the cards over the table. “If you want to end us for good, it’s fine with me, but at least have the courage to say the words.” 

She doesn’t get to see Harry’s dumbstruck face, as she keeps looking down, and so his stuttered answer infuriates her even more, instead of soothing her. 

“I--can’t--do--that.” 

“Are you kidding me now?!” she shrieks, outraged. “Be a man, or at least a Gryffin--” 

Her breath’s taken away by the shock of finding Harry so close to her all of a sudden, within her personal space. She tries to step back but he grabs her, pulling her close. 

“I can’t, because that is not what I want. I meant to ask if you could give me another chance--if we could get back together, now that everything’s over. I’ve missed you. So much. Everyday that I was away. I’ll fix everything I broke, I just--” 

“Stop talking,” she commands and he complies at once, his mouth hanging open with the unsaid words on his mind. He looks up at her in total distraught. This is what he’d feared; it is too late, of course. And he understands. 

She must read his feelings on his face. 

“So you’re saying this whole odyssey hasn’t convinced you that we cannot be together for my safety or that you need to live in a cave for precaution?” 

“Not at all. Quite the opposite,” promises Harry, dropping to the ground to stress his words. “This is the one thing I see clearly now. I want to be with you. You can certainly handle yourself--and myself.

“Though the cave thing remains an option.” 

“Don’t be absurd,” scoffs Ginny, rolling her eyes. 

There’s a long beat where no-one says anything, waiting for the other to speak first. In the end, Harry has to ask this other question. 

“How about you?” he dares to ask. 

Ginny scoffs again, the smallest of smiles on her lips. “For Merlin’s--I needn’t a goddamn War to know what I wanted, you idiot. I’ve always known my own feelings and desires and they haven’t changed.” 

“You mean--” 

“Yes, you clueless, blind, stupid child--I do want to be with you too.” 

“Thank you,” whispers Harry, so many emotions in those two words that could never be described. “Thank you.” 

He doesn’t finish the second sentence; he’s raised from the floor and kisses Ginny eagerly, affectionately. Against all odds, against any expectations he may have had, Ginny holds him with one hand on his back and the other through his hair, lingering a touch they both were clearly craving for far too long. Writing everything wrong. Making up for all those times--way too many--they could have been together and kissed without remorse, throughout their years at Hogwarts or during the War, but didn’t because of fear, lack of time, nervousness, who knows what else was mixed in there. 

“By the way,” says Harry when they finally break the kiss, but don’t step away from each other, holding into a tight embrace, “I don’t think any of the adjectives from above are the correct address for the Defeater of the Dark Lord.” 

“Oh, please,” scoffs Ginny, her breath warming Harry’s nose tip. “You will refrain from calling yourself that if you want to keep me by your side.” 

“No silly nicknames, lesson number one, learnt,” promises Harry, nodding, a movement that makes their noses touch and his hair tickle her forehead. 

“Here’s lesson number two,” she says. 

“I’m all ears.” 

“Bear in mind that I’ll kill you myself if you ever decide again, for whatever reason, that you must leave me.” 

He pretends to ponder the rule for some seconds, but really, it wasn’t even up to debate. 

“Understood,” he says, leaning in for another long kiss. 

They’d thought of never take their hands off each other never again, but as usual, nothing works out as one wants it to. 

“Oh, Merlin,” scowls an adult’s man voice, clearly distraught from stepping into them. That interruption forced the couple to jump from each other’s arms to see Arthur making an attempt at hiding behind Hagrid’s hut--too slowly. At least they know they won’t be told off by him. 

“I interrupted something, didn’t I?” 

“Not at all,” replies Harry, lying as best as he can, to keep peace with his, with any luck, future father-in-law. 

On the other hand, however, Ginny just can’t be that polite with her father at this moment. 

“As a matter of fact, Dad, you did,” she scowls. Harry grabs her by the arm to make her shut up, but she doesn’t. “We’ll see you later at the Great Hall, alright?” 

“Hold on. Did you just propose?” he exclaims at Harry. He was shaking some dust and soil off his knees, from when he’s knelt down thanking Ginny her forgiveness, without realizing Arthur would jump to such a conclusion. 

“What--NO!” shrieks Ginny. 

Her father doesn’t listen to her anymore, as he’s currently hugging a dismayed and terrified Harry. 

“Merlin’s beard, dear boy, congratulations. And welcome to the family--officially.” 

“Dad, will you--” 

“I can say it now, I’ve dreamt about you becoming my son-in-law.” 

“Thank you, sir, but I must--” 

“Perhaps sometime soon we can talk about Muggles and straight everything else out. Well, Ginny, let’s find your mother--Merlin knows she can do with some happy news and get her mind to something else than--” 

“Dad! Stop talking for a second, will you?!” shrieks Ginny, stopping on her tracks as Arthur was pulling the two of them forward, towards the Castle. “I didn’t accept--Harry didn’t even propose, if you must know!!” 

Arthur finally stops to listen and his face drops, looking alternatively between the two, Harry dismayed with a forced smile on his lips, Ginny flat-out furious as she explains the situation fully. 

“All that’s happened here is that we’ve just made up. Nothing else.”

“Oh,” whispers Arthur, clearly ashamed. “Right, you broke up because of the War and--” 

“Yeah, no need any reminders,” interjects Ginny. 

“Delicate issue,” explains Harry, trying to be the soothing party between father and daughter, even if the situation’s especially embarrassing for him. 

“I see,” he stutters. “Well, I’m sorry for this--Hagrid did say you two were--” 

“Hagrid just talks too much,” scowls Harry, pondering if he’d break his arm if he did try to punch Hagrid. 

“Now, Dad, if you don’t mind--” 

“Leaving,” he promises, backing away, since it was so clearly what he wanted to do for the last couple minutes. “And sorry--again. Pretend this conversation never happened,” he whispers before he disappears behind the hut. 

“As if that were possible,” scowls Ginny, facing Harry again, crossing her arms around his neck. 

They don’t worry Arthur might hear them; they know he’s just sprinting up to the Castle. 

“I don’t think I can even wrap my head around the fact that your father would accept it should I propose to you,” acknowledges Harry, cocking his head. “I know I do. The question remains--” 

“Slow down,” scowls Ginny in an incredulous scoff, placing a finger onto his lips. “You just got me back. Don’t push your luck.” 

“Shutting up,” accepts Harry, appreciating the timely warning. 

They both smile broadly and start chuckling, couldn’t put their finger on, but the reason doesn’t really matter--they are because they can. And in the meantime, throughout their chuckling, Harry leans in for another kiss, which he’ll never get fed up with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize I haven't written much during the years when the Golden Trio attended Hogwarts, but since there's so much canon already on that aspect I'm going to focus more on the Marauder's Era and the Next Gen Era. Perhaps I'll add a few more chapters during the canon timeline from a different POV, but nothing else. Sorry if that upsets any of you !


	53. Chapter 53

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the War, Hermione sets herself to look for her parents and bring them back to England. Ron isn't about to let her go alone.

“I’m sorry, dear; you’ve got the wrong address.”

“My bad. Afternoon, ma’am,” she says, one foot already outside the door.  
   
“D’you want to schedule a visit with the doctor, dear?”  
   
“No, that’s alright, thank you very much,” she promises. “And have a very nice day.”  
   
“You too. Enjoy your visit to Sydney!”  
   
Are the last words they hear before the glass doors shut behind them and they walk into the crowded, noisy street in center Sydney on this sunny day so different from the winter season they’re used to suffer back in the UK, with freezing temperatures, snow, scarf and gloves absolutely necessary--not T-shirts, for Christ’s sake. Hermione takes a deep breath, scratching off the list the place they’ve just visited--waiting for it. It takes Ronald only thirty seconds this time, upon leaving the last dentist’s office, to scoff, grumpy.  
   
“Enjoy your visit, certainly,” he scowls. “My feet are killing me and I’m exhausted. This is a hundred times worse than the horcrux hunt.”  
   
“I’m sorry, were you planning on not walking again in your life after we were done finding the horcruxes?” demands an exasperated Hermione.  
   
“That’s not what I meant. A trip, I enjoy them as much as the next guy. But this, what we’re doing, isn’t pleasant, nor a sight-seeing tour.”  
   
“You’ve never left England, then,” sighs Hermione, getting into the quarrel against her better judgment because she’s just too tired to reason.  
   
“Excuse me? What’s that supposed to mean? I’ve visited Egypt with my family, you know.”  
   
“Really? When was that exactly?” she scoffs, tired of this song. “Plus, exhausting walks that result in hurt feet are exactly what a tourist gets when they visit a foreigner city.”  
   
“Don’t remember that when I went to Egypt,” scowls Ronald who, despite all his complaints, is still following her some feet behind, dejected, hands deep inside his pockets. What Hermione’d give for him to return to the hotel and sulk there on his own.  
   
“Well, stop complaining, you are visiting some of the most famous landmarks in Sydney!” exclaims Hermione, signaling to their right.  
   
Almost uninterested, Ronald looks up to the direction Hermione’s pointing. Up there, trough the buildings, they can see the bridge they crossed fifteen minutes ago to get to the fourth dentist’s office on the list. He’s nonchalantly said that it isn’t much different to the London Bridge, even after Hermione listed the many difference between the two landmarks: the bridge in London’s length is only 269 meters and is made from cement and steel with one rail for direction, whereas the one in Sydney has more than a thousand meters length, is made entirely of steel, has as well one pedestrian way and a cycle one, and its steel arch is the tallest one in the world. Ron’s remained unimpressed--and still is.  
   
“Sure--only on our way to every dentist’s office you want to go,” he says.  
   
Hermione comes to a halt, breathing deeply not to cause a mayhem in an unknown Muggle city.  
   
“Honestly, Ronald, I’m making an effort here. I told you you didn’t have to come.”  
   
Her tired voice seems to snap Ronald’s out of it and realize the jerk he’s been all day, till this very moment. He stops too, spins around and grabs Hermione’s hand, in a silent apology.  
   
“I’m sorry. You don’t deserve any of this.”  
   
“No, I don’t,” agrees Hermione, such manners and fake-arrogant voice making them laugh.  
   
“And don’t tell me again to leave you. I couldn’t let you out of my sight,” he whispers.  
   
Hermione understands the feeling; she feels the same. When she decided to leave the UK only a week after they defeated Voldemort, she was truly hoping Ron’d offer to join her to the other side of the World; wouldn’t have felt at ease leaving him behind, even if all danger was long gone already. Especially when they’re in this crowded city away from home, unknown to the both of them.  
   
“I just looked forward to some time to rest before going on another adventure,” confesses Ron.  
   
“Oh, you mean like Harry is?” she snaps, too rudely as well. She knows at once that was completely uncalled for. Ever since the end of the War, Harry stayed around long enough to give the minimum answers to peers, family and friends and to briefly attend to the press, before shutting down at Grimmauld Place, which can’t be very healthy with Mrs. Black portrait and every other ghost roaming around, even if Kreacher’s keeping an eye on him. Ginny’s lucky if she can get him out of there once a week.  
   
“Sorry,” she sighs, defeated, her heart still aching for Harry’s well-being and state of mind. “Guess I’m tired too.”  
   
“You have nothing to apologize for,” says Ron, hugging her by the waist. “But, yeah, a nice two to three weeks holiday back at my place, doing nothing at all, was in my mind as a reward for everything.”  
   
“And I want to relax as well,” she promises. “That’s what we’ll do the minute we find my parents, OK? All of us together?”  
   
“Sounds like a plan,” sighs Ronald, bumping affectionately against her before hugging her by the shoulders and let her take the lead to wherever they have to go next.  
   
He might be one of the few men in the world--or the only one, even--who’s for real eager to meet his parents-in-law officially as their daughter’s boyfriend, all for a higher reward. He’ll overcome anything if that means that afterwards he can drop over a bed and sleep for fourteen hours straight--even destroy another horcrux, if that’s what it takes.  
   
“D’you want to get back to the hotel?” asks Hermione.  
   
He grins, knowing the answer she wants to hear, the appropriate answer that should be the only thing in his mind right about now.  
   
“Only if you want us to,” he replies, leaning in for an Eskimo kiss.  
   
She giggles, all trace of anger and tiredness vanished already, luckily, her energy batteries fully recharged as well.  
   
“There are a couple more places around the area that I’d like to check.”  
   
“Lead the way,” commands Ronald softly, pointing forwards with his head, realizing they’ve been blocking part of the sidewalk for quite a while--but doesn’t care.  
   
Hermione on the lead, the address list on her hand and checking the map Ron holds open without aiming to decipher any of it, they keep walking around this particular neighborhood of the city which name he has no particular interest of learning today, the high arch of the Sydney Harbour Bridge visible now and then over the top of the buildings. They retrace their steps now and then when Hermione gets some direction wrong--can’t really blame her for a few mistakes while looking for this particular doctor’s office whose number they wouldn’t get at a tourist stop. 

“Don’t get me wrong and please don’t kill me for what I’m about to say,” starts Ronald after they pass by this subway station for the third time in a row. 

“Oh, Lord,” scowls Hermione before him. “Why do I fear what’s about to leave your mouth?” 

“I was just going to ask--why are we looking for your parents like morons instead of, you know, make things easier. We’re wizards of age, you know,” he adds in a chuckle, lowering his voice. 

Hermione stops on her tracks and raises her head to the sky, letting the unseasonal sun warm her face, her back facing Ronald for so long it becomes scary to the boy, who fears this is just the straw that breaks the camel’s back. In the end, she turns around slowly, measuring her every move, a desperate look on her face, her thumb and index pinching softly this point in the arch of the nose.

“Of course. How could I forget? We’ve only assisted six years in a School of Magic and Wizardry!” she shrieks in obvious sarcasm. 

“Lower your voice,” begs Ron, eyeing around briefly. People pass them by nonchalantly, but if someone does listen in, they’re screwed. But for once in her life, she doesn’t seem to care. 

“How do you suggest Magic can help us? Perhaps we could summon my parents?” 

“No, of course not,” scoffs him. 

“The only thing that’d be convenient is Apparating from one place from the list to another, but, like we’ve assessed many times already, it’s too dangerous when we don’t know the city and there might be too many witnesses!” she yells in the end. 

She spins around and storms away, forgetting about the list, the Map and above all, forgetting about Ronald, who’s left by himself on the sideway, too close to a subway and the street, left to fold single-handedly the map against an annoying breeze. 

“Hey--hold on!” he begs. 

But in no time Hermione’s already crossed the street and Ron realizes in fear that if she turns left, he’s about to lose sight of her. Exasperated, hoping not to do anything rush in the middle of this Muggle street, he makes a ball of paper out of the map and runs to catch up with Hermione, two streets down. 

She doesn’t stop no matter how much he begs and yells two feet behind her, while internally praying no Muggle will call the authorities on them, so he grabs her by the wrist and forces her to turn around and face him--doesn’t care about the consequences of said quarrel. She still fights; refusing to meet his eye. 

“I said--STOP!” he yells in the end, panting. “I’ve apologized already! Can’t we just move on! We’ve survived worse, for Merlin’s sake!” 

“Are you ready to accept your suggestion was pretty much futile?” demands Hermione coldly. 

“No, I’m--” 

He cannot finish, since Hermione struggles to get free and run away again, only because he didn’t say what she expected from him, which altogether sets him off as well. 

“Hey--Listen! I’m not, because you utterly got me wrong. You’re a wizard--a well-known witch and a damn good one too. Your parents moved here not too long ago. Only thought the Ministry could have pulled a few strings and get you the civil records of the city so you could find them more easily.” 

“Oh,” whispers Hermione, realizing her humongous mistake. 

They take a moment to catch their breaths, after which, Ronald releases Hermione’s arm, a bit uneasy still restraining her in the middle of the street, still uncomfortable to meet each other’s eye. 

“I did consider it,” acknowledges her. 

“Course you did,” sighs Ronald--should have crossed his mind earlier. 

“The Ministry’s been busy with their. . . Polishing. Kingsley couldn’t spare a single man.” 

“Seriously?” scoffs him, not even trying to make amends anymore. “We’re talking about a meaningless favor that’d take up to what?, fifteen minutes?, for one of the Wizards who defeated Voldemort. They should be scrubbing the floor you’re walking in if you snap your fingers.” 

“Come on, Ronald,” begs Hermione, rolling her eyes, ‘cause he couldn’t have thought of a more sensitive comparison. “I sadly know that, you know so, they know that as well. Perhaps--Perhaps I didn’t ask,” she confesses finally in a low whisper, looking up at him only slightly embarrassed. 

“Why?” demands him, weary. It’s not as if she’d asked for something stupid or unconceivable. 

“I feared he’d offer me a job in the meeting.” 

“You could have refused,” he states blatantly. “You’re perfectly capable of saying ‘no’ when you want to.” 

“Look, I just couldn’t,” replies her a bit exasperated; thought Ron’d understand her on this one. “I didn’t want to get into the Ministry so soon--with my studies unfinished.” 

“Oh, please--” 

“Ronald, there’s nothing else to it, I just wanted to avoid the Ministry for the time being,” she interjects, raising her voice. 

The man, overcoming his own surprise, raises his hands up to Hermione’s shoulders, still trying, after days, weeks and months, to make amends with each other. 

“Okay, okay. Sorry. Come here,” he orders, forcing her to lean on him. 

She does and he takes advantage of the situation to drag her to a close by bench, under the shadow of a tree, to sit on comfortably for a little while--they both need it. He also contemplates the idea of fetching a bit of water from the fountain in the square before them, since they haven’t eaten or drunk anything for some hours, but doesn’t want to leave Hermione by herself, not just yet. They just stay there, hugging, without a word or a gesture, for a couple minutes. 

“What’s wrong with us?” he bursts out then, angrier than he’d admit. 

“To say we’ve just survived a War doesn’t quite cover it?” chuckles Hermione, her voice shaky. 

“I thought, after we were done with Voldemort and the horcruxes--” 

She interjects him by placing a warm hand on his chest. 

“Ronald, there’s no such thing as ‘perfect’, not even in the romantic field. Plus, we’re only seventeen, what can you expect of us? Of this?” 

“To last a lifetime?” he suggests very sweetly, raising an eyebrow at her. She chuckles but he doesn’t let her contradict him this time, shoving reason and coldness at him. “Or until you can’t put up with me anymore, which I’m guessing will come way sooner.” 

“Don’t be silly,” chuckles Hermione, hitting him with her elbow. “We’ll be fine, as long as you make me laugh and all our fights are as meaningful as the ten rants we’ve had this afternoon.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks for the tip,” whispers Ron, caressing her arm. “And now--weren’t we supposed to schedule a dentist’s appointment?” 

Hermione looks up upon such a radical change of subject, to discover what had caught Ron’s attention at the end of their conversation. Right before them, in a third-floor window there’s a dentist’s office announced. Ron certainly hopes it’s the one they were looking for, because he doubts even Hermione can still read that map. 

“Come on,” says she, a smile again on her lips, patting Ron’s knee as she stands up. 

He groans but follows her suit, no longer in the mood for yet another quarrel, however meaningless, and with a turn to their left and a couple more yards, they land in front of the dentist’s office. As usual, Hermione knocks and does all the talking--wouldn’t want to blow this whole thing down just because Ron messed up while talking to Muggle people. 

“Excuse me, does one doctor Wendell Wilkins and wife work here?” 

The receptionist, a kind woman well in her thirties who could do herself a visit to the chiropractic, smiles politely at Hermione--and both their spirits lift up to levels they didn’t think would me imaginable at this moment. 

“Why, yes, they do, m’dear. They’ve worked here for nine months already. Did you have an appointment with them?” she asks in the end, reaching for a book on the desk. 

“No, I didn’t, but I did want to ask for one for tomorrow, if possible,” says Hermione, kicking Ron’s foot to prevent him from opening his mouth now of all times. 

“Let’s see,” suggests the woman, opening the book and checking some pages for a couple of seconds. “There’s an opening at 3 o’clock in the afternoon, would that suit you?” 

“Couldn’t it be any sooner?” asks Ron, fairly certain Hermione wouldn’t hex him out here in public. “Don’t want to be disrespectful or--” 

“Is it an emergency?” demands the receptionist, showing genuine concern for a potential patient she’s just met. 

“Kind of,” sighs Hermione, going along with the lie now, “but it certainly can wait until tomorrow,” she promises upon getting one sympathetic look from the woman. 

“Alright, then. He’s got a spot tomorrow at 11:30, how does that sound?” she suggests. 

“Perfect,” says Hermione. “See you then.” 

They bid farewell politely and once again the receptionist, having caught their accent pretty much from the moment Hermione opened her mouth, wishes them a pleasant trip back to the UK. Hermione wraps up the conversation while Ronald leaves the office in the first place. She’s just found her parents again. In a few hours they’ll be once more the family they used to be before she had to hex them into oblivion for all their sakes. Her heart bumps in excitement as if it wanted to dart out of her rib cage as she leaves the office as calmly as she’s able to in order not to make the woman any more suspicious of them. 

Though her heart stops beating upon leaving the office and stepping once more into the crowded, noisy, sunny street, where Ron’s standing with a quizzical look, almost out of his mind because of her. She sighs and with another stern look, forbids him to say another word until they get on a cab, achieving almost privacy as long as the driver doesn’t think of them as lunatics, and they’re on their way to the hotel--the one thing that could cheer Ronald up again. 

“What was that for?” he demands cautiously, trying to get some answers without getting into yet another fight. “We finally find your parents--” 

“I didn’t want to meet them dressed like this,” she says, though it does sound like a lie to Ron. Bottom line, she wasn’t ready to meet them just yet. “I can wait a few more hours. And know you’ll dress the part as well.” 

“Basically, you’re telling me to lend you full access to my bags till you find something appropriate,” scowls Ronald, since that’s been their pattern every day--he didn’t want to look like a fool in an unknown city filled with Muggles. 

“Basically, yes,” confirms Hermione, chuckling, as she reaches a hand to grab Ronald’s. 

“OK,” he accepts, looking out a window so as not to burst out laughing and cause another australian citizen to be concerned because of them. 

The wait, all in all, isn’t that bad, especially when it involves resting and loitering around in their room and having a quiet, nice dinner on their own, asking room service to bring them food instead of going down to the restaurant. Hermione’s nervousness and excitement does show, though: she doesn’t utter two dozen words all evening, which is strange coming from her, and even worse, after dinner she spends a couple hours packing their backs, so they’re as ready as they can be to get back to the UK once they meet and have a long conversation with her parents--she doesn’t forget to rummage through Ron’s stuff and pick up the perfect outfit for him, a funny and colorful combination Ron doesn’t dare to say anything about. 

And next morning, she forces him to take a shower, change and eat breakfast all in less than twenty minutes, almost dragging him out of their room and the hotel, all to get to the office fifteen minutes before their appointment. They’re forced to stay in the waiting room--Hermione refuses to sit down altogether--and he spends those fifteen minutes reading some stupid Muggle magazine on some special event called the Oscars that’s coming up soon, apparently. He’d ask her about it if he didn’t know any better. 

When it’s their turn, Hermione can hardly walk--Ron has to pull her from the arm, watching her wand in case in her eagerness, she acts too soon. 

Meeting Hermione’s father, smiling politely at them both while standing in his office’s doors, as if it was for the first time, strikes Ron all too suddenly; hadn’t expected this to feel this strange. The whole situation feels unreal to the both of them; Hermione, because she’s seeing her father, at this normal, Muggle environment as a dentist, without him recognizing her. For Ron, because he’s been keeping both eyes on Hermione and hasn’t even considered until this very moment what this situation would feel like. 

The man allows Ron to stay with them inside the office, in spite of the rules, and Hermione lays down on the bed, as comfortable as it gets--as if that’s what they call it, think Ron, sitting on a stool with wheels in a corner. 

“Okay, Hermione, tell me, what’s the problem?” asks the doctor--he’s checked his patient’s name on the list, out of courtesy. Hearing the british accent again is almost a blessing; it’s like a prelude to going back, finally, to their home country. 

“I’m sorry, sir--I’ve forgotten my dentition in my coat’s pocket,” she says, pulling a remarkable nervous act on that convinces even Ron. “Can I go get it?” 

The doctor, however, smiles pleasantly at her and takes off his gloves as to open the door and peer outside. 

“Mafalda, could you get our patient’s coat, please?” he asks nicely. 

“Right away, doctor,” says a woman outside, Hermione’s mother. Though her tone was nothing but professional, there’s a sweetness ever present there that shows she’s just talked to her husband with warm and affection. Those same feelings must be the reason why the doctor turns around and closes the door with a bright smile that wasn’t there moments ago. 

“No need to be nervous about anything, young lady,” he says as he sits again on his stool by the bed. “A doctor’s appointment’s never pleasant, but it’s not frightening either, is it?” 

Hermione chuckles nervously. “I guess not. It just hurts a lot,” she lies. 

“Well, that’s no good,” says the doctor. “Where does it hurt exactly?” he asks, showing full concern for his patient. 

“I think it’s the right maxillary first premolar,” she whispers, sinking into the bed. 

An answer that gets a surprised gasp from the doctor--and Ronald as well, on second term--but before he says anything, the nurse comes into the room, carrying Hermione’s jacket that she really doesn’t need with the warm temperature outside. 

“Here’s your coat, dear,” she says, handing it to her. 

“Thank you so much, ma’am,” appreciates Hermione, taking it. 

As the woman approached the bed, Ronald didn’t need a signal from Hermione to lock up the office’s door by a non-verbal spell, his wand hidden in his trouser’s pocket, standing by in case he’s needed again. But the doctor and nurse are still oblivious to the situation, even when Hermione’s taking her own wand from her pocket, visible for all to see--they’re just staring at the toy-looking object without comprehending. 

“It’ll make sense in a second,” whispers Hermione. To be safe, she casts the counterspell non-verbally as well, trying not to freak them out any further. 

The effect is gradual--contrary to what Ron and Hermione’d expected. Fear disappears from both their faces after a few seconds, but not yet confusion, since they stare at them both as the memories slowly return to their minds. . . A life-time of memories. And then the tears--of joy, sadness, still incomprehension--overflow their eyes moments before they hug tightly their daughter. 

“Oh, my God!” they exclaim, as loud and desperate as they want, provided by Ron’s Silencing Charm. 

“Hermione! Why does it feel like months since we last saw you?” shrieks Mrs. Granger, which causes an involuntarily chuckle from the teenage couple--it’s been months and it feels like years, to be honest. 

“What are you doing at the Clinic?” demands Mr. Granger, suspicious all of a sudden. 

“Mom, Dad,” sighs Hermione, taking a deep breath as she wipes the tears off her cheeks, trying to keep it cool as long as they need it, “things can be pretty confusing for a while till we explain everything.” 

“We?” repeats Mrs. Granger, glancing up from her daughter for the first time since she’s recognized her--stumbling upon Ron’s presence, awkwardly seating on the stool, who stands up to shake both their hands formally. 

“We know you,” says Hermione’s father, as that time when they met Ron comes to mind, through a foggy, incomplete mind. “Ronald, one of your classmates, right?” he checks the facts with Hermione. 

“Boyfriend, actually,” specifies the girl, a grin appearing behind the tears, grabbing Ron’s hand. 

“Boyfriend!” exclaims Mr. Granger. “Since when?” 

“I don’t remember you talking about any of the boys from School that way,” snickers Mrs. Granger, pinching Hermione on the shoulder. 

She rolls her eyes exasperated--but glad to finally have such a normal conversation with her parents, one that’s been long overdue, in fact. This is exactly what it should have been like for them had things gone normal for any seventeen-year-old couple. As much as they’d all like to let this family reunion linger for hours, however, they can’t do it in here; Ronald reminds her so with a single look. 

“Mom, Dad, we’ll explain everything, but not now,” she says, getting back on track. “Where do you live?” 

Once again they’re baffled by one of their daughter's sentence. 

“What kind of question--?” 

“Wait,” Mrs. Granger interjects her husband, grabbing his hand in panic. “Are we--Is this--Are we in Sydney? Australia?” she asks Hermione, in complete confusion now. 

That little detail registers into Hermione’s father as well. 

“What on Earth are we doing working down here, so far away from you?” he demands, broken voice, sending a hand up to her daughter’s cheek. 

She sighs deeply, wishing to tell them, as she grabs her father’s hand. 

“That’s--” 

They remember that tone of voice and that look again all of a sudden--it’s remarkable how they can, piece by piece, start pulling it all together. 

“Something else you can’t tell us,” interjects Mr. Granger in defeat; they’ve heard this song for too long throughout Hermione’s academic years. It was the condition she arranged so she could explain mostly anything that happened to her and her classmates while keeping them both as safe as possible from her World. 

“I’m sorry. I will someday,” she promises. “But listen--take the day off.” 

“Of course we are,” scoffs Mrs. Granger. 

“Write down your address and we’ll meet you there,” resumes Hermione, handing them the same notebook they had listed the dentist offices around Sydney capital. 

“We’re not leaving you!” shrieks her. 

“You aren’t,” promises her, taking Mrs. Granger’s hands into hers. “But we just came in as your patient. We just can’t get out as your daughter and future son-in-law.” 

“Future--” stutters Mr. Granger, looking up at Ronald in fear. 

“Are you that serious?” demands Mrs. Granger, her voice a bit threatening now. 

Ron can’t exactly decide on the spot what in the world is he supposed to tell them; this was supposed to be only a get-together for the Granger’s part of the family. 

“I’m--” Luckily, Hermione interjects him before he says anything stupid. 

“We’ll talk about it back in your place. Now we’re going to leave the office and see you home, OK?” 

Always in charge, reckons Ron, grinning to see that, despite everything, Hermione’s still herself. Then again, this time’s for the best--her parents don’t look as if they would be able to make any rational decisions right now. Certainly the Statue of Secrecy isn’t their priority as of this moment--if it ever was. As Hermione hugs longingly her parents, almost wishing she weren’t forced to separate this soon, he wonders how much will she actually tell them to explain everything. Statue of Secrecy or not, she cannot tell them right off the bet they’ve taken an active part in a goddamn War; they’d have a heart attack. 

As soon as they’re outside, leaving behind an astonished receptionist because of Hermione’s tears and eagerness of getting out of the office, Hermione looks for a dark, empty street, grabs Ron’s hands and concentrates in order to Apparate out of there. Mr. and Mrs. Granger’ve explained her how to get to the house by public transport, but she’s having none of it now--and so within seconds they land on an unknown apartment. Small, barely fit for a married couple, beautifully decorated with few to none personal items. As Hermione’s told him, she made them leave most memoirs back home, so when they got back--no need to use that frightening conditional anymore--everything’d be the same. 

Just in case, Hermione takes a couple minutes to peer out of the windows to check they’re indeed in the right place, in spite of knowing that apparition cannot get wrong. Afterwards, Ron compels her to sit down on the couch and he keeps his arms tightly around her, since she looked as if she could use a warm embrace. She indeed rests against his chest and has to swallow the tears. 

“You found them,” he repeats over and over. Their final quest is done now. “Everything will be just fine.” 

“I’m sorry. I’m fine, really,” she sobs. 

He’s not worried, not this time. This is just her way of externalizing the exhaustion of the last couple of days--and weeks and months--the guilt of sending her parents away, the fear of not surviving the War and making them live their lives without ever knowing they had a daughter and every other horrible feeling that comes with overcoming the Darkest Wizard of all times. It’s almost natural she’s acting this way now. 

“You won’t be losing them again, I promise,” whispers Ronald. “Everything’ll be fine.” 

Right as Hermione was starting to settle down, a key turns the lock open. They stand at once, still hugged to each other. Hermione’s parents, who’ve clearly ran all the way over here, storm in, and the family members hug in a teary-eyed reunion, which Hermione’s mother drags Ron into also. They just stand there for a number of minutes, kissing each other, caressing their cheeks, wiping off their tears only to be replaced immediately by new ones. . . It takes them a lot of time and energy to get to the couch--reason why Hermione casts a tea set magically for them four. Her parents don’t even mention it when they see it; they’re not bound to spoil the party now. 

“You do remember I’m a witch, right?” starts Hermione after maybe half an hour, when they’ve attempted to drink their teas and are seating at the couch. 

“Of course,” nods Mr. Granger. 

“How could we forget?” replies Mrs. Granger, kissing her daughter on the cheek. “That you’re this amazing, gifted, special girl that we’ve told you time and time again that you were. Though you’re a woman already.” 

Hermione smiles warm smile, tilting her head, as Ron caresses her free hand from the other side. 

“I thought you couldn’t use Magic outside the School?” asks Mr. Granger scared. 

“I’m not attending Hogwarts anymore,” sighs Hermione after sharing one look with Ron; that’s the nicest way she could think of to say there are no longer any subjects to teach at School. 

“Why?” demands her father. 

“Honey, what’s happened?” presses Mrs. Granger, voice full of concern, proving that, even if they understand nothing of it and can’t possibly help her in any of her homework or exams, they’re as interested in her academic careers as they’d be if she were a simple Muggle daughter. 

“Please, tell me you didn’t drop your studies and ran off with Mr. Ronald here,” scowls Mr. Granger, being exactly the father-in-law Ronald was fearing to meet, once things settled. 

“Hey--” tries to calm down Hermione. 

“Sir, that’s not something I’d do. Ever,” promises Ronald, sitting straight to appear--taller, or older, who the hell knows. “I know how much your daughter values her education.” Though they did skip 7th year altogether and went on an excursion over nine months together, Ron reckons. Mr. Granger’s thoughts aren’t that far off the truth. 

Before he messes things up any further, Hermione stands so everyone watches and listens to her. 

“Okay, let me explain everything,” she begs. “Don’t interrupt me for a while and I’ll answer any questions you may have before you make them.” 

Her parents accept the deal, Ron encourages her with a nod of his head--and Hermione starts talking. Ron, back on the couch, was ready to interject her and complement the speech if the need arose, but as usual, she doesn’t need any help. Though through ears and uneasiness, Hermione explains everything that’s happened this last year, no, spared detail: Voldemort, how they had to go hunt horcruxes, their investigation, how Mr. and Mrs. Granger needed to disappear from the UK for their own good, the War, the losses. Her parents look more terrified and dismayed by the minute, but abide her ruled and do not interrupt, even when they clearly are desperate to do so. But in the end, when Hermione settles her story with another sip of her tea, her throat dry, seems they’ve forgotten everything they wanted to say in the first place and Hermione’s story’s met with stunned silence and weary looks. 

“Well,” sighs Mr. Granger, rubbing his hands on his trousers. He clears his throat, apparently without the slightest idea of how to proceed. “That was one hell of a story.” 

Hermione nods, but can’t take it as a joke, not yet. The events are all too vivid still. 

“So--Are you mad at me for erasing all your memories and sending you out here?” she dares to ask in a whisper much less brave than while she was talking five minutes earlier. 

Her parents, luckily, shake her doubts with warm smiles. 

“No, darling, we aren’t,” promises Mrs. Granger, taking Hermione’s hands and kissing them. “We’d have done the same thing for you if we could’ve.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” begs Hermione, now that it’s all over. 

“Of course, we worry,” scowls Mr. Granger. “What in the world were you thinking?” 

“Taking an active part in a War?” adds Mrs. Granger--and it seems the long-awaited reunion doesn’t spare them from the parent-talk about the risks they took, one they already received from Mr. and Mrs. Weasley minutes after Voldemort was dead. 

“You could have died!” 

“You’re not even of age, honey, for the love of God!” shrieks Mr. Granger. 

“Actually, she is,” interjects Ronald shyly--with spectacular bad timing. “In the Wizardry World we come of age at seventeen.” 

“Well, then you should have been wise enough not to accept such a task!” 

“Or to confide it to someone a bit older, a bit more experienced!”

“I’ve told you, it was too risky,” replies Hermione. 

“Are you telling me you didn’t even trust your own teachers?” demands Mr. Granger, looking down at her. 

“What about that professor, your tutor or something?” 

“Head of House,” corrects Hermione, unable not to do so even when she’s being told off in front of her boyfriend, right when she was expecting a bit of compassion and a lot of love. “Minerva McGonagall.” 

“Her, exactly! Couldn’t she have done it?!” scowls Mrs. Granger. 

“Mom, Dad, please let’s not fight. We made a decision--maybe the wrong one--but we promised to stand by it no matter what. And as you can see, we’re more than fine. No severe injuries or robot limbs you need to worry about.” 

“But there were casualties in that War,” insists Mr. Granger. 

“Yes, of course, but--” 

“You could have died just as well!”

“You,” demands Mr. Granger, pointing a finger at Ronald threateningly, in a manner that makes the boy wonder if he shouldn’t leave now that he’s got the chance, “you say you love here? You want to spend your life with her?” 

“Yes, sir,” he answers truthfully. 

“Then why didn’t you stop her?! Kept here safe?!”

“Dad!” scowls Hermione. “In the midst of a War you can’t think--” 

“That’s exactly when he should have forced you to stay back.” 

“Mr. Granger, sir, Harry and I, we would have died hadn’t been for Hermione,” replies Ron, figuring honesty’s his best chance at the moment. “I understand this is not something you’d like to hear, but in this relationship, she’s the one who does all the saving, not me.” 

“And he protects me,” Hermione tries to mend, linking their fingers together. “I wouldn’t have made it out of the War alive either if he hadn’t been by my side.” 

Ron couldn’t pinpoint exactly when this argument’s become a defense debate of their relationship, with everything else they could be arguing about considering the story behind them being in Sydney, but, strange as it is, such honest and harsh words coming from them both do the trick: Mr. and Mrs. Granger don’t find any more arguments in time and so, the quarrel ends finally. 

“We’ll have time to talk about all this,” settles Mrs. Granger. 

“We’ve booked plane tickets to return to England the day after tomorrow. Hope you two don’t have any more business to attend to here in Sydney?” 

“‘Course not. We’ve been wanting to go back ever since we got here,” promises Hermione, speaking freely on behalf them both. “Things are not quite settled yet back at home.” 

“But it’s safe, isn’t it? No-one’s after you two anymore?” insists Mr. Granger--they won’t fly back home in the next decade if there’s still a chance their daughter’s in danger. It’s easy to read the subtext behind his words--it’s what any father’d do. 

“I promise,” she says, looking at her parents straight in the eye so they finally take her seriously. “Voldemort’s gone and so are most of his followers.” 

“What does ‘most’ mean, on this case?” insists Mrs. Granger. 

“The ones who didn’t die are in jail.” 

“Plus a few on the run,” admits Ron upon their skeptical faces. Even in their Muggle history there must be some War record; it’s hard to believe everyone of the bad guys is gone for good. That’s unrealistic, “however, they’re not a threat; every Ministry of Magic’s alerted of their identities, they wouldn’t--” 

“Okay, okay, we’ve heard enough,” begs Mrs. Granger, covering her ears. Even if they do want to know what their daughter’s been up to, and know that she’s definitely out of harm now, some things are just too soon to hear. “Go easy on us.” 

“Sorry,” chuckles Hermione as an apology--can’t feel too blue for pissing off her parents after all this time. 

They nod a couple of times; they’d missed all of this also, even if they couldn’t remember what they were missing out by being at the other side of the globe. 

“Let’s start like any other parent would,” suggests Mr. Granger, to everyone’s surprise, including his wife and daughter, who’re supposed to know him. He sits straighter and faces Ron, who hold his breath, a bit frightened. “It’s nice to have you in the family, son.” 

He hands Ron his hand, same way the boy did earlier in the Clinic, a formal way of introducing himself. He smiles briefly, appreciating coming back to normalcy again, to what he knows even from the Wizardry World. 

“Thank you, sir,” he whispers, shaking his hand. “Ma’am,” he adds while doing the same with Mrs. Granger, fond smiles in everyone’s faces. “Though I think it’s best I warn you about mine. I’ve got six siblings,” he reports, forgetting all about Fred’s death--no one has accepted it yet. “And my father’s absolutely obsessed with everything Muggle,” he chuckles. 

“Muggl--?”

“Related to our world,” explains Hermione. “Ron comes from a family of wizards.” 

“Oh, I see,” whispers Mrs. Granger, looking as thrilled about it as Arthur feels about the Grangers. 

“We’ll be glad to meet them all. But for now--one more thing,” adds Mr. Granger, more serious, leaning to the end of his seat, in a predisposition that gets Ron’s heart bumping erratically. 

“Sir,” he clears his throat. 

“What in the world are you wearing?”

Baffled by the question, Ron needs a very long minute to look down on his clothes and ponder that the mix just doesn’t add up, even in the funny, weird Muggle World--but what would he know. Torn jeans, a plain white T-shirt and a too long leather jacket, plus black socks with yellow “Croc” shoes, did seem a bit off when Hermione suggested it to him. The girl’s burst of laughter only makes it worse, proving him she purposefully chose this out of the place outfit. 

“Apologies for my looks,” he scowls between his teeth, barely keeping his voice and anger even. 

He grabs Hermione’s hand and takes her to the kitchen after him, almost dragging her because she can’t even stand because of the laughter, but at least Mr. and Mrs. Granger won’t be able to hear either it or his growls, provided by a Silencing Charm. 

“Very funny, Hermione,” scowls Ron. “What did you do this for?” 

“Come on, you don’t look that bad, I promise.” 

“Did I make a fool of myself all around the capital for the last three days?” demands him. 

“No, the other outfits were plain Muggle clothes, I swear,” promises Hermione. “Wouldn’t put you at the crossroad this badly.” 

“Oh, but in front of your parents, it’s alright to make me look like a fool, huh?” 

“Figured it’d be a way to break the ice--needed a cushion just in case.” 

“So you didn’t think I could help you out just by, I don’t know, being honest with your parents, instead of looking like a clown the first time I met them officially?” scowls him. 

“Don’t be so mad, please, Ron,” begs Hermione, leaning closer, crossing both arms around Ron’s neck--an intimacy they haven’t had in more than two weeks that makes it impossible for the boy to keep his head straight and stay on topic. He throws his head backwards, taking in a very deep breath. 

“Did it work?” he asks finally in a whisper, resting his forehead against hers. 

“Yes, it did,” nods Hermione, more calmly now, though that ever-present grin still there. 

“Well, now that the buffoon’s play’s over now, can I change clothes?” demands him a bit exasperated, getting his wand back. Pointing at himself, he transforms his current clothes--an useful spell Hermione taught them both while they were on the run, came in hand few times overall--into normal, plain robes. A sight that sets Hermione laughing again, grabbing him by the collar. 

“That won’t do either,” she replies. 

Ron goes back to what he was wearing earlier, rolling his eyes in despair. “Could you please give me a hand? I trusted you with my clothes until today.” 

“Okay, hold on, do not move,” she begs. 

He stands straighter, legs at shoulder’s length, hands still separated a few inches from his body. With a flick of her wand, Ron’s wearing now a plain, long-sleeve navy shirt and a pair of jeans--something he’s seen already many times around here, but didn’t dare to ask about it.   
“Thanks,” he appreciates, feeling awkward on this either way. “While you’re at it, could you explain a couple things to me?” 

“Sure,” says Hermione, now willing to please him, resting against the countertop. 

“How did your father say we’re going back to England?” he asks a bit nervous by the prospect. 

“By plane,” explains the girl. “It’s how we Muggles travel long distances, especially when it involves crossing an ocean. It travels by air.” 

“By air?” he repeats, now in fright. “Like broomsticks?” 

He remembers everyone telling him such objects aren’t common in the Muggle World--so how in the name of Magic. . . Hermione’s little smirk tells him that is nothing like a broomstick, but she refuses to explain further. 

“You’ll see--in a couple of days.” 

“Do I need to be worried?”

“Only, should you be afraid of heights, but I already know the answer to that, so, no,” she promises. 

Ron nods a couple of times--no, he isn’t scared of mounting on a broomstick and then engaging a competitive game thousand yards from the ground, a sports where there’s no time to worry about crashing against the floor and dying. Yet, this “plane” thing sounds more terrifying than broomsticks and Quidditch. 

“One more thing--” 

“Oh, God,” scowls Hermione, rolling her eyes, who was making an attempt to leave the kitchen already. “This is going to be unbearable, isn’t it? You knowing nothing of the Muggle World and they knowing nothing of the Wizardry one?” 

“Perks of a muggleborn being engaged to a wizard,” snickers Ron, now that he can mock her for a bit. 

Hermione scowls once again, turning around with hatred in her eyes. 

“Do not bring that up for the time being. I’ll find a more proper place and time--one that doesn’t include a desert nearby where they can drop you,” she scowls. “Now get out--we’ve been here long enough. My parents’ll think we were doing something out of place.” 

“You haven’t answered--” he tries to reply as Hermione lifts off the Silencing Charm and drags him out of the kitchen. 

“Whatever you want to know, you can ask me in front of my parents. They’re involved in this family and situation too, now. I won’t be having two-sided conversations with the three of you explaining every tiny detail you don’t understand. And this way you’ll get to know them better,” she settles, pushing him towards the couch where Mr. and Mrs. Granger are still waiting for them, just a little puzzled. Guess they can get used to it now that their daughter will be including Ronald in her life.


	54. Chapter 54

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Few days after the Battle, the restoration of Hogwarts Castle begins, with the help of the Staff, students and parents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so from now on I'm going to be a bit more "freelance" about the stories and at some point deviate from canon. There are some things I don't accept as canon (mainly the Cursed Child, but not exclusively) and you'll soon find out. Bear with me or you can stop reading these chapters altogether, your choice ! 
> 
> However I hope you're enjoying the reading !

“Reparo. Reparo. _Reparo._ Reparo!!” It's a simple enough spell she learnt back in her third year at Hogwarts, three syllables, the hand movement that of a triangle upside down. Still, she’s and still she's unable to conjure it properly, and so she ends up yelling the charm fiercely, as if commanding infuriated her own wand to work properly. 

Nevertheless, today most people are having a really hard time performing it correctly and getting the results they wish for. 

“Ginny. Ginny!” shrieks her father in the end. As she won’t stop to listen, Arthur settles to grab her from the wrists to prevent her from casting some unknown spell that could endanger the lives of the half dozen people present within firing range. There’s been enough loss and damage within these broken walls already. 

“Ginny, listen to me!” 

Upon that yell, the girl finally snaps out of it. She stops fighting her father and drops her wand, which sets off a couple of purple sparks when it hits the ground. She realizes she's all surrounded by her family, worry in their eyes, but also understanding and the same sorrow and hurt she’s feeling. She wipes some tears off her eyes and cheeks when she remembers the one person she wants and needs by her side but isn't here, but instead Neville‘s  running towards her, more concerned than others. 

“Sorry. I'm fine. If the goddam spell would work…''

“Ginny, you should remember that in order to perform any spell, easy or complex, you need the right amount of power and, most importantly, peace of mind,” says Arthur slowly, just trying to help her. 

“I don't want a lecture, please, Dad,” scowls Ginny. 

“Then how ‘bout a break?” suggests Neville, all too eager and cheerful, standing behind Ginny so he can stop her if she aims to resume her work. 

“No, I don't want that either,” scowls Ginny. 

Even with Neville standing behind her, she can notice him laughing at her response. Neville rests an arm around her neck and leans in, though doesn't exactly make it a secret what he says. 

“That wasn't a suggestion.”

Ginny rolls her eyes at that. The way they've been taking care of each other ever since they, along with Luna, pretty much took charge of the DA and the defense of Hogwarts and its students, she should have predicted his answer. And so she gives up and allows Neville to drag her away from her workplace,  towards some stones that'll do as seats. 

Neville helps her seat first and then hands her a canteen filled with freezing water that does good with the way she's sweating today. 

“Thank you,” she whispers in the end, able to say so apart from her family. “And sorry.” 

“You don’t need to apologize,” promises Neville, winking at her. 

Ginny shakes her head, disagreeing, but she won’t engage another fight with him. It’s exhausting and useless and today’s not the day for it. And so, she takes another sip, while Neville leans on his elbows, getting comfortable. 

“Shouldn’t push yourself, Ginny,” he says softly, nothing but concern in his voice. “It was only a few months ago when we were right here fighting Dementors, Death Eaters and what else.” 

“And you weren’t?” demands Ginny, turning halfway towards Neville to confront him. 

He chuckles softly, looking at the ground to avoid her gaze. “I don’t know how anyone’s got the guts to come back here so soon.” 

“Right there with you,” confesses Ginny. She sighs deeply and leans to rest her head on Neville’s shoulder, who isn’t at all embarrassed or annoyed that Ginny should take so many liberties. “I think it’s a way of therapy. Restoring the Castle as a means of somehow, restoring the damage inside of us.” 

It was only a couple of days after the Battle, two weeks max, when there were rumors that the Hogwarts Staff and house-elves had started the works of mending the Castle and rebuilding whatever needed to be repaired. Some inquisitive students showed up to see if it was true and by the end of next week, more than fifty wizards from all over England had travelled back to Hogwarts to help in the restoration. However, the works are very slow, even with Magic. It’s heartbreaking for one and all to see the Castle on this state, a symbol of what was destroyed because of the Battle. Coming here and help the Staff has become so much more than just an altruism decision; it’s a chance, for each and every one of them, to make peace with what happened in here and attempt to take a first step towards recovery. 

“So we’ll be whole when the Castle is entirely rebuilt?” 

Ginny scoffs and takes another sip of water as a response. Neville nods, accepting his mistake, knowing that Hogwarts is just a symbolism, seeing it restored might bring some peace of mind to any of the fighters in the Battle of Hogwarts, but will in no way be enough to say they’re recovered and let go of the past. There are just so many horrible memories filling their nightmares that they won’t vanish anytime soon. 

“Either way, it’s cheaper than actual therapy,” chuckles Ginny and this time, Neville joins her. 

“So, Harry and George. A no-show?” he asks after a couple of minutes. 

Maybe this rebuilding and restoration of Hogwarts Castle could have helped them both too, but last he heard George was set into living between the Burrow and his joke shop, and Harry had shut himself into Grimmauld Place. And looking at Ginny, he can see that there are no news on that front. 

Neville opens another bottle of water and they start drinking it slowly, not at all in a rush to get back to work. And at that moment, Molly decides to step in as well, standing a couple feet from the boy and girl. Ginny had to hide a scowl, while Neville keeps on a polite smile on his lips. 

“You ready, honey?” asks Molly, reaching a hand out. 

“Mom, there’s no rush--” Charlie tries to complain, to be hushed immediately by Molly. 

“I know that, young man,” she says. “I was just showing concern for my only daughter, or are you banning me from doing so?” 

Giving up instantly, Charlie raises his hands on the air and turns around towards the rest of the family, considering how to proceed their work. Ginny looks back at her mother almost impressed, although Molly’s right on one thing. The deal for coming to Hogwarts was that there are no schedules, no to-do list, no calling out lazies. Everyone does what they can when they can. And Molly knows they’re not slacking off, they’re all just trying not to fall into despair nor suffer an anxiety attack. 

“Couple minutes and I’ll be right with you,” promises Ginny, pretending to be feeling better than she actually is. “I’m just a bit... Tired.” 

Molly nods appreciatively, accepting the lie as only a mother can do. She caresses Ginny’s cheek, a gesture the girl doesn’t move away from for once, knowing her mother really needs physical contact--physical reassurance--to know that her other children are all safe and sound, close by. 

“Come when you’re ready,” she whispers. 

“Will do.” 

Molly dedicates a nod to acknowledge Neville’s presence and the same courtesy she’s extended Ginny, which the boy accepts bowing his head, before Molly leaves them be and returns to the rest of the family, at the other side of the Viaduct Courtyard. Arthur welcomes his wife by hugging her by the shoulders and exchanging a brief kiss. In fact, amongst them, the only one who’s working is actually Percy: he’s pointing at the base stones of the Arcady and levitates it non-verbally, dragging it to its original place. 

Ginny and Neville linger, staring at the family while they work. 

It is unfortunate that they were assigned this place, reckons Ginny, looking around to see her family work without a rush in the world, hoping two of the missing family members would somehow appear out of nowhere; she understands that Hermione had to leave for Australia to find her parents and that Ronald couldn’t let her go to the other part of the world all by herself. She also wishes she could correspond Harry the same way, or that Harry was able, physically and emotionally, to correspond her that same way. Plus, the Viaduct Courtyard, right where the Battle took place, right where they thought, for some brief minutes, that Voldemort had actually killed Harry... It’s a bit too painful. 

Of course, there aren’t many places they could have traded in instead of this one. The Hogwarts Tower would have made her tear up the second she got there. Same with the Entrance Hall or any of the classrooms. Perhaps the kitchens might have been a good idea, but that was the first thing the house-elves rebuilt. So when the family got to Hogwarts and were offered by McGonagall this side of the Castle, they just accepted it and moved on. 

At her side, Neville exhales deeply, leaning on her. 

“Each of us has his own rhythm of suffering,” he says. 

Such an unexpected phrase gets Ginny laughing out loud, something that hasn’t been heard around here lately and that prompts Ginny’s family to look at them as if they had finally snapped out of it and lost their minds. 

“Should become a writer, Neville,” she confesses between breaths. 

He tilts his head to one side. “It’d be plagiarism. I’ve read that one somewhere.” 

“Oh.” 

As Ginny turns her head away from Neville, all good humor forgotten now, Neville attracts her attention again.

“You’re missing the point, though,” he says. “I’ve heard you haven’t taken time to yourself. And that you’re in no hurry of visiting Harry.” 

Ginny scoffs, raising her hands in the air.

“And who’s the snitch?” she demands. 

“Your parents,” Neville confesses right off the start, blatantly, without shame. “They’re worried about you, Ginny. And quite frankly, I am too.” 

“I wasn’t the only one who fought in the Battle,” she reminds him coldly. “And either way, I’m not a damsel in distress, Neville--you can stop worrying.” 

“Come on, Ginny. We all need our time. Maybe coming here wasn’t--” 

“Wasn’t what, Neville?” asks a new voice, a clear, innocent, fragile female voice, and before they turn towards their right, they already know it’s Luna standing by their side. She meets them with such a warm smile that makes them forget all they wanted to throw at each other, all their worries, all their struggle. How can someone smile in the midst of runes and despair? The answer’s obvious, as always: it’s Luna they’re talking about. 

The girl in question waves at the Weasley family, who stop working once more to greet the newcomer. 

“Looking good, family!” praises Luna. 

She gets many appreciative words as she settles on the rock by Neville’s other side. 

“Wasn’t what?” she asks. 

“Maybe...Wasn’t the brightest idea,” Neville finishes his last statement, very slowly, not so confident now. 

“I think we made the right choice,” says Luna, shrugging. “Better than moping at home, in any case. At least this way all the hard-work didn’t rely on the Staff and the house-elves.” 

That’s an argument they cannot refuse, Ginny and Neville reckon, their previous conversation all but forgotten. They’ve been oblivious to the chores in the hands of Hogwart’s Staff, the Headmistress and also the poor house-elves. Had Hermione known, she never would have left the UK. 

Luna looks at them both, staring at their empty hands, wands laying nearby, but useless at the moment. 

“Want to go eat something?” 

Without looking at Luna, Neville and Ginny ponder for a couple seconds. Then they nod and give her an answer at the same time. 

“Sure.” 

The three students stand simultaneously and head, for a mutual and unspoken decision, towards the right entryway. Only Ginny stops for a second when they pass by her family. 

“We’re going to go and grab a bite to eat,” she says. Even before she’s finished, Molly and Arthur have already dropped their chores and approached to kiss her goodbye, as if she were moving out or something--but she lets them. “Want something?” 

“Yeah, some sandwiches would be nice,” says Charlie. 

“See you in a bit,” Arthur bids farewell, his voice indicating that Ginny, Neville and Luna should take all the time they need to come back and bring the food. 

Ginny nods once more before following her friends out of the Courtyard, to enter the half-destroyed Castle through the Marble Staircase Tower and get to the Entrance Hall to access the exterior grounds. Except maybe the Slytherin Dungeons, most of Hogwarts was destroyed and needs repairment, which is frankly depressing--walking through the halls and corridors that once were lit with light, joyful conversations, even ghosts pranking the pupils and teachers scolding them. Now there are more ghosts and it’s more silent than ever before. 

Few minutes in they stumble upon Leonard Chester weeping on the floor, comforted by some of his fourth-year classmates. But he’s not accompanied by any adult figures: his parents abandoned Leo and Christopher when they were babies, they didn’t even remember their given names. They’d been changing foster homes all their lives. And that’s why losing Christopher at the Battle of Hogwarts, killed by one of the giants, takes such a toll on the Leo. They pass by them--knowing that Leo’s accompanied, they’ll be a bother rather than help. 

But there are many, one too many, sob stories related to the War and the Battle that took place in this Castle. One for every person who joined the fight and is now living with the consequences. 

Neville grabs both Ginny’s and Luna’s arms when they reach the top of the Grand Staircase, because it’s almost impossible to climb them--upwards or downwards--without breaking one’s neck, that is the current state of the stairs. Still destroyed. 

However, the stairs look a little bit better now--and that’s thanks to a few men dressed in Durmstrang uniforms, who nod at them as they realize climbing down the stairs isn’t a mortal feat anymore. There are also students from Beauxbatons here. Wizards from all over the country heed the call and have come to offer their help rebuilding the Castle, including a couple of ninety-year-olds who attended Hogwarts and are melting everyone’s hearts with their kindness and their stories. 

 

They know it’ll do them no good, but they peek into the Great Hall. So many treasured and joyful memories from there are being replaced as well with the War and the aftermaths of the War, and they hoped to see or hear good news. But the Great Hall hasn’t changed--there hasn’t been any improvements since this morning. 

As they expected, McGonagall’s standing in the midst of what used to be a magnificent Great Hall, discussing something with the builders and architects they called from the Ministry. They listen intently even if they know they shouldn’t, unsure if they should make their arrival noticed. 

“So we should take down this wall, is what you’re saying,” McGonagall says in a hoarse voice, summing up the conversation quite depressingly for the three pupils. 

“Yes, ma’am. The foundation won’t hold if we don’t,” explains one of the architects, sorrow in her tone. They’re talking about the north wall, where the dais and the Staff’s table used to be, the only one still standing that gives students and former students a sense of this being the Great Hall they once knew. Another tragedy concerning today.

They decide they’ve heard enough for now and silently, head towards the grounds. The sun greets them again with torturing intensity and happiness, opposite to the gloomy feeling hovering around the Castle. 

If possible, the grounds, that do not need any repairs, are more crowded than the Castle itself. They’ve been receiving visitors all day long. Some people join the work, some just admire the rebuilding process, others come to offer them food and drinks so they don’t have to go to the camping site set out in the fields. Others are just visiting the Castle with their families and friends in the hope of mending psychologically, visiting the place of the Battle that took a loved one from them, or where they were severely injured, or attacked by someone they knew and trusted. Whatever the reason, the show-up is quite impressive and appreciated as well. 

Out in the fields, the Staff and grown-up wizards have prepared somewhat of a Muggle camping, they’re calling it--a dozen wooden tables, plastic cutlery and to eat, whatever home-cooked food the families were able to bring today, because the house-elves have strict orders of keeping up with the rebuilding and restoration of the Castle. There in the camping area, everyone can stop by and grab whatever they want, whenever they want to, or just sit down under the shades of a tree to rest for a bit, both physically and emotionally--which is just what Luna thought Ginny and Neville should do, they’re aware of that. 

People seem almost oblivious of the destroyed Castle behind them and the horrors they’re trying to hide. This is what they should show if someone should ask them what a “catering” is in the Muggle world: everyone’s too happy to eat and drink whatever food and beverages available, and the caters also seem to be enjoying serving other people a bit too much. Ginny’s this close to raise her voice and tell them all to open their eyes and see what they’re surrounded by, remember why are they here in the first place, why are they eating in an improvised camping site instead of, for example, the Great Hall Hogwarts is known for. She’s tempted to give them all a lesson. But just like her mother, she gives in too. Today’s not the day for it--no one would forgive her. She knows, deep down, they’re only pretending not to remember or not to notice. So they can eat in peace and have a bit of peace of mind. 

There is, however, this one cauldron no-one gets close to. The smell is hideous, specially when they’re in leeward, and it doesn’t look so good either. 

But of course, Luna knows what it is and grabs three cups for them. 

“No-one’s tasted the Cheering Elixir!” she says, sounding a little bit insulted, filling to the brim the three cups one by one and handing one to Ginny, then Neville. “My Dad made it himself this morning. It’s a slightly variation from the Elixir to Induce Euphoria, it’s meant to lift up your spirits and allow to be in the appropriate state of mind for today. It really helps! I used to get so nervous about my exams in school, that I would even pass out before the examination. Until my Dad made me this every morning and suddenly I started to pass the exams with flying colors. Well, drink up, come on!” she presses when after all her babble, she’s finished her drink and sees that Neville and Ginny haven’t even tasted it yet. 

Neville and Ginny exchange the briefest of painful looks--of course no one’s touched it, a “slightly variation” of the Elixir to Induce Euphoria isn’t something that will probably make them feel alright right away. But they can’t do this to Luna, they’d come to terms with her way of looking after people throughout their latest year at Hogwarts, so they pluck up their courages and drink the beverage in one long, a close to disgusting sip. They breathe again when they can swallow it without vomiting and throw away the plastic cups into a nearby trash. 

Next they’re desperate for some water and real food that’ll settle their stomach. After grabbing a few random sandwiches and greeting a few fellow students and their parents, they drag their feet towards one of the benches and will stay there for as long as they need to. 

“Your Dad still here, Luna?” asks Ginny. 

“Sadly, no. Had to go back home and write a new section for The Quibbler. It’s gotten quite famous, you know.”  
“We do,” promises Neville. “My grandma started buying it during the War and decided to drop off the ‘stupid press’ as she calls it, as long as she may live.” 

They all chuckle in return, knowing that’s something Neville’s grandmother would totally say. 

“Is she ‘round here?” asks Luna then. 

“Somewhere, yeah,” nods Neville, looking around for her without success. “Works better alone, without no-one bothering her or telling her what to do.” 

“I think the opposite’s also true: anyone would run wild after five minutes working with your grandmother,” says Luna. 

“Possibly, yeah,” agrees the young man. 

Even when they don’t see Neville’s grandmother, the three of them stare at the many wizards and witches all around the country, some foreigners too. A few of the dishes are french as well, though after that Elixir, Neville and Ginny don’t think they can muster to eat much anything. Even the Minister and a few of Heads of Department came by on the first day of work to apologize for their “lack of appearance, support and help” on the War, those were Kingsley’s exact words. 

“Quite a show-up,” says Luna in approval. 

“Yeah,” agrees Neville, quite proud of the Wizarding Community today. 

“Makes you wonder why they came,” sighs Ginny, wiping the water off her chin with the back of her hand. Her depressing state, although comprehensible, is getting tiresome, which gets Neville to snort at her, without fearing to make her angry or anything. 

“I think it's called working in the restoration and rebuilding of Hogwarts Castle. Or a good show of teamwork,” he suggests. 

She elbows him on the ribs and he chuckles, hiding a moan from the pain, whereas Luna chuckles, glad to see their relationship hasn’t gone off the rails despite everything they’ve suffered. 

“I think it’s nice,” she confesses after a few seconds. “Rebuilding the Castle united, getting freed from a few ghosts in an actual unanimous Wizardry Community... There’s a lesson to be learnt.” 

Both Neville and Ginny nod slowly in agreement, the briefest of smiles on their lips--no need for words. 

“Dumbledore said something similar once, didn’t he?” asks Ginny a few seconds later, tilting her head, attempting to force her mind to remember. 

“Of course he did,” approves Neville. “What he said was--we are only as strong as we are united, as weak as we are divided. Back in fourth year, when Diggory died in the hands of Voldemort.” 

“Right,” says Ginny, remembering all of a sudden, a bit more sullen what with Cedric’s and Dumbledore’s deaths amounting to the poll, to top it all. “You do have a way with words, don’t you, Mr. Longbottom?” 

He chuckles and blushes deeplt at the praise, too shy to take it as nonchalantly. “Why, thank you, ma’am.” 

“Well, he certainly was right,” says Luna. If she’s talking about Albus or Neville, they can’t really tell. “Those words apply now more than ever.”


	55. Chapter 55

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Couple years after the War, the trials against the remaining known Death Eaters take place. Within the Wizardry community, some people look forward to exemplary sentences for their actions during the Second Wizarding War

The place, he’s been told, has changed quite a bit. For one, ten years earlier they wouldn’t be calmly sitting on a marble bench out in the hall, unsupervised, the three of them together while they wait to be called. People wouldn’t address and refer to them, not exactly in awe revere as before, but certainly still respectfully, as to any other wizard and witch out there. 

And above all, in no way a Minister worker himself would have been the person--or creature--to come greet them and take them in. He stops three feet from the bench and tilts his head in what can only be called a mocking bow. 

“Mr. Malfoy, they’re ready for you now. Young Mr. Malfoy only,” he replies when the three of them were about to stand up from the bench. 

“It’s us three or none at all.” 

“Ma’am, you can’t really do that,” replies the minister in a snicker. 

“Try me. My son will not be tried and charged on his own.” 

“Please, don’t do this any harder than it needs to be. It’s been a long day for all of us too and we still have two more trials to go. They just want to talk to Mr. Malfoy.” 

“Talk being the operative word,” scoffs Narcissa. “Say it like it is--they want to punish him.” 

“And you expect him to come in on his own so he can’t defend himself?” 

“Please, Dad, Mom, you don’t have to do this--” 

“Don’t interrupt us, Draco,” interjects Lucius coldly, as the Minister speaks above their complains. 

“Sir, rules are rules. I’m sure your son is perfectly capable of--” 

“He’s only being charged by a hundred grown-up wizards who want to punish him. I barely see the fairness in it all.” 

“Ma’am, I’m asking you--” 

“Charlie!” yells a new voice ten feet from them. They all recognize at once the man who’s approaching, and the Minister worker bows his head to him, as the Superintendent of Magic glares at the three Malfoy family members. 

“Superindentent, I’m sorry for the delay, I was just--” 

“I overheard,” interjects the man coldly. “It’s fine, they can all come in.” 

“Superintendent--” 

“I’ve got the approval of the board. That doesn’t mean they’ll be treated any differently than the others. A small expression of kindness only proves things have changed,” replies sternly the man. 

They all understand that fact and nod acknowledging--they couldn’t really expect the treatment they used to get around here, not after everything went south. Their heads dropped, just a bit crestfallen, they follow the Minister worker and the Superintendent into the circular trial room, every seat taken by Minister workers in gowns and reporters, and thousands of piles of folders occupying every free inch. 

Under the stare of the Superintendent and many other Minister workers, they are offered three small potions and they don’t doubt for a second in drinking them in one single sip. As conversations slowly die, waiting for the potions to take into full effect, they walk slowly towards the small space in the middle of the room, standing tall, whereas the Superintendent meets his seat again. 

They wait patiently as the room becomes quieter and soon enough silence hovers the room, a full minute later, till the effects of the Veritaserum show. Then, the supervisor Goodwin Oswald leans forward and starts speaking. 

“Afternoon, Messrs Malfoy, Mrs. Malfoy.” 

“Good afternoon,” greet back the three of them, even if they weren’t asked a direct question. 

“You’re here today before the Council of Magical Law on your own free will and on full capacities to testify and be tried for your actions concerning your allegiance to Lord Voldemort and the Second Wizarding World. Do you agree to those statements?” 

“Yes, we do.” 

“Date: Monday, July 26th of the year 2000. People charged: Mr. Lucius Malfoy, 46-y-o; Mr. Draco Malfoy, 19-y-o; and Mrs. Narcissa Malfoy, 45-y-o. Presiding the trial: Dilys McLaggen, current Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement,” dictates the man, due to standard procedures, before addressing the Malfoy family again. “Let’s start with young Mr. Malfoy, then.” 

The boy steps forward and stares blankly at the supervisor, his mind almost numb thanks to the potion, knowing only he should not speak unless he’s asked directly. 

“When you were still an underage student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, following your parents’s well-known path, known Death Eaters and followers to Lord Voldemort during the First Wizarding War--” 

“Please, your Honor, you can’t condemn a child for his parent’s actions. He’s just a boy, he’s not possibly accountable for what we did,” interjects Narcissa. 

“And we’re here about the actions taken place during the Second Wizarding War--you can’t charge us for any act committed before than--” 

“Do not interrupt me,” forbids Mr. Oswald, raising a hand sternly. “I’m fully aware, though I may not agree with them, of the fairest restrictions of our Law. At the same time, we are judging each and everyone known Death Eater who took any part in the Second Wizarding War. That’s why you’ll be punished for your actions committed two years ago. You’re here only because you’ve been provided of the highest honor, that is, to be able to defend yourselves in front of this Court, because, lucky for you, things have changed since the downfall of Lord Voldemort. So, let’s try again, shall we,” he suggests and resumes reading from a paper before anyone changes his mind. “Mr. Draco Malfoy, while being underage, you befriended Death Eaters known followers of Lord Voldemort and abide Lord Voldemort’s orders the same way as your parents did. Can you offer any evidence that may deny those facts?” 

“No, sir, I cannot, but--” 

“Can you deny that during your sixth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry you were accessory to the break-in of Death Eaters that led to the major destruction of private and historical property, dozens of injured and, above all, the murder of the by then current Headmaster, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore?” 

“Of course not, I did find a Vanishing Cabinet at Hogwarts’s Room of Requirement and brought Death Eaters to the School, but in any case--” 

“Can you our can you not deny that approximately ten months later, around Easter holidays of 1998, you were accessory to the kidnappings of Harry James Potter, Hermione Jane Granger and Ronald Bilius Weasley, three seventeen-year-old wizards just like you, and were willing to surrender them all to Lord Voldemort?” 

“I can’t deny the first part, but I must say, I never surrendered them to the Dark Lord.” 

“But that was what you and your parents, along with Miss Bellatrix Lestrange, had in mind.” 

“Can’t say it wasn’t. I’m only stating the facts--we never did.” 

“Noted,” grants Mr. Oswald, writing something on his papers briefly. “Moving on, can you deny your presence and actions during the Battle of Hogwarts in May 2nd, 1998? Many, many witnesses saw you there.” 

“Presence, no. Actions? I think I can, yes. I didn’t even have my wand on me at the moment--My mother’d lent me hers, but it wouldn’t obey me like it should, so I couldn’t really use it in a duel, against Death Eaters or otherwise, could I?” 

Murmurs raise around the room as some ministers whisper to each other, and the reporters just write frantically into their notepads each and every word said--since that’s a piece of information they hadn’t heard of before. Mr. Oswald, on the other hand, clears his throat and goes back at it. 

“And can you deny you were willing, together with Mr. Vincent Crabbe and Mr. Gregory Goyle, to turn Mr. Harry James Potter in to Lord Voldemort once again during the Battle of Hogwarts?” 

“But we never did.” 

“Only because you almost ended up killing Mr. Harry James Potter, along with Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley, didn’t you?” 

“Mr. Vincent Crabbe lit a Friendfyre that put all of our lives in danger, not only theirs.” 

“And yet Mr. Potter saved you all that night.” 

“Mr. Crabbe, the author of the Friendfyre, deceased because he couldn’t control it.” 

“Mr. Potter saved you, Mr. Malfoy, personally that night,” specifies Mr. Oswald with an exhausted voice. 

“Yes, that’s what happened,” grants him. 

“And Mr. Potter saved your life again later that night when you encountered a bunch of Death Eaters on your own.” 

“That’s also true,” acknowledges Draco with a nod of his head. “But I must say, I was already wandless at the time.” 

“Proving once more Mr. Potter did save your life twice that night,” inquires Mr. Oswald. 

“I--Guess so.” And though all the Minsters were aware in advance of that fact, some impressed murmurs raise around young Mr. Malfoy, who just knows his chances at being freed are decreasing by the second. 

“Afterwards, when the Battle of Hogwarts finished and you were imprisoned, you alleged you were forced by the Dark Lord to do everything we’ve just listed.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Well, those are the facts,” sums up Mr. Oswald, leaning into his chair with a slow sigh, as if this were painful and hard for him too. “The Court will deliberate and decide. Now, Mr. Malfoy, you shall wait outside and--” 

“He shall have a chance to speak,” interjects a woman, this time, standing up from her seat beside Mr. Oswald’s. “He’ll be granted the chance to speak freely before we deliberate, Mr. Supervisor.” 

Again, a murmur raises around the room after the woman’s words, but of course, she’s completely right, and no-one, much less Mr. Oswald, can’t deny Draco Malfoy or his parents, or any other Death Eater at trial today, of that recently added right. 

“Your word,” grants Mr. Oswald, obviously regretting it. 

“Thank you, sir,” says Draco, clearing his throat. “And thank you too, Madam Undersecretary, for this opportunity. There are some things I’d like to point out concerning all those facts your supervisor has enlisted. First of all, I can’t deny, nor I’m trying to, that I was a Death Eater. A big mistake on my part--But I just didn’t know better. I had to. Doing otherwise would have been catastrophic, both for me and for my parents. We would have ended up dead if we hadn’t shown allegiance to the Dark Lord again when he resurrected. And yes, I did help Death Eaters get into Hogwarts Castle that night on 1997, but because I had no other choice. Lord Voldemort had promised he’d kill me if I didn’t obey his commands and fulfill my duty--Merlin, he’d have killed my parents first, then tortured me for who knows how long, only granting me death when I’d be begging for it.” 

It probably is the first time such cruelties from the Dark Lord are explained by a teenage kid, reason why a low outraged and horrified murmur raises once more among the Court wizards; however, that doesn’t stop Draco’s speech, as he’s embolden by the Veritaserum. 

“On the other hand, like I’ve said, I never did turn in Harry Potter to the Dark Lord. Even though I had a chance to do it, I wasn’t able to. Maybe I was weak, maybe I was frightened. Call me whatever you want, the facts, as important as ever, remain: I didn’t surrender Harry Potter to Voldemort when I had the chance. 

“And finally--concerning my actions during the Battle of Hogwarts. I didn’t meet the Dark Lord’s call when other Death Eater students did join the battle by his side. I couldn’t retrieve Rowena Ravenclaw’s diadem, the errand the Dark Lord had given me, so I pretty much was trying to hide from him and his followers. Plus, like I said, I couldn’t have taken any part in it without a wand, could I? I lost my wand when Harry Potter saved me from the Room of Requirements. I spent most of the time looking for my parents, who by the way were wandless too at the moment, and we got out of there when we found each other. That’s all there is. Those are the facts,” his last sentence is almost spat at Mr. Oswald with pure venom. 

“You deny, then, any involvement in the Battle of Hogwarts?” demands one of the jury’s witches. 

“I do, yes,” answers Draco, head held high; saying the truth despite the embarrassment. Either way, their family has lost any reputation and political and social esteem they had, so it doesn’t matter anymore. “The truth is this one: I was a coward and acted such one for most of three years of my life, if not much, much more time. All my actions that are being charged today were mistakes I did out of fear and probably, shame. Do what you want with that.” 

“So you’re saying we should simply disparage everything you did?” demands Mr. Oswald in an incredulous tone, barely containing a chuckle. “Accessory to murder, accessory to kidnapping, allowing entering and breaking into Hogwarts, your involvement in the whole Battle of Hogwarts?” 

“I’ve explained myself for my actions in the Battle of Hogwarts,” replies coldly Draco, his usual manners showing up despite everything, “as well as the events of that night on June 30th, 1997. And if you insist on adding to the list the kidnapping of Harry Potter, Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger, I should insist those to be marked on my chart only as illegal retention--I had nothing to do with their actual kidnapping.” 

“You are in any case, accessory to murder!” insists Mr. Oswald, trying to hold on to the last charges Draco hasn’t still tried to deny or defend himself against. And they seemingly can’t move on past the fact that one of the greatest wizards of all times, the only one they thought could ever defeat Lord Voldemort, was murdered within school boundaries. 

“For Merlin’s sake, he never pronounced the Avada Kedavra!” yells Narcissa, behind the boy, stepping forwards to face Mr. Oswald. “What you’re looking for is the real murderer--And you already know who it was--Severus Snape! Not my son!!” 

Everyone in the Court room sighs deeply and looks even more tired than seconds ago as soon as the name escapes Draco’s mother’s lips. Seems like Snape’s actions in the last decades have already been studied under the microscope multiple times. 

And a new male voice proves so, a voice extremely and strangely familiar to Draco, raising from the other side of the room, talking sternly and authoritative towards every Minister, and yet out of his comfort zone, as if he were doubting his rightful place within the room. 

“As it’s been said many times before, Severus Snape was a brave and trustworthy man. He’s got my own confidence as much as Albus Dumbledore trusted the man. I won’t spend any more time defending him nor bother explaining the reasons why he was to be trusted and absolved of any crimes you thought he committed. And in any case, you can’t really charge a dead man, so why bother look into it anymore?” demands quite sharply a tired looking Harry Potter. 

Draco stares at him as Oswald and many other Ministers demand a little bit of calm and serenity; Potter, on the other way, doesn’t even care about the Malfoy family and avoids their glare, keeping looking forward, at Oswald or Merlin knows who. His presence was just the last thing Draco needed here today. 

It takes Oswald a good two minutes to settle down the room. And then he doesn’t even get the chance to speak--not that he’d try to keep being the focus of attention and head of trial, considering the way he and everyone else in the room looks beamingly at The Defeater of the Dark Lord. 

“The way I see it, and the way he’s explained it all by himself, we’re here in the middle of a full Court trial for a wizard who had no other choice than to do all those things that he did. Those mistakes, because they were nothing but, can only be attributed to him due to personal circumstances. Who doesn’t love his family and appreciate his own life? A seventeen-year-old wizard, let me tell you, more than anyone in this room. He’s given an explanation for most of his actions--and yet you’re still here, pondering if sentencing him to a life penance. If you want things to come to this, fine: the only one crime he did fully commit, tried and succeeded, from beginning to end, was allowing the entrance to Hogwarts Castle of Death Eaters on the night of June 30th, 1997. Sure, it led to the death of Albus Dumbledore and dozens of other injured people, yes, including also a man who was attacked by Fenrir Greyback and whom you held in custody for some time in the past for his half-wolf condition. But on that night, the only thing attributable to Mr. Draco Malfoy is using the Vanishing Cabinet to allow the entrance of said Death Eaters. 

“So, tell me, what’s the charge for that crime?” 

As Potter looks around waiting for an answer that will most certainly not come, given the astonished faces from the Ministers he sees around him, Draco can do nothing but still stare at him in disbelief. Not once in his nineteen years had he thought he’d see this day, when Harry Potter would not only speak on his behalf, but also defend him for his terrible, unforgivable mistakes, those benign ones at Hogwarts and, furthermore, some more horrible still under the Dark Lord’s commands. And yet there he is, standing in the middle of a Court room, being listened to, being taken in consideration and, apparently, being agreed with. Merlin, he could ask for his parents to be brought back to life and still the Ministry would try to make it happen. 

Ten minutes must have passed after Potter’s speech when Oswald demands silence again, raising his hand--and surprisingly enough, he gets it. Potter sits down, still tired, still under everyone’s eye, as all the wizards and witches settle down and turn towards the supervisor. 

“We’ll take it under consideration,” he says grudgingly. “Mr. Malfoy, please leave the room and wait for our decision.” 

Draco nods and leaves through a narrow passage between the stands, being on the receiving end of many hatred and dubious looks he pretends not to notice. At the door, a Minister hands him another small potion and Draco grabs it, though only now he doubts about taking it. 

“Is it really necessary? The effects are already wearing off.” 

“Your choice, kid,” replies the man, shrugging, without caring in the slightest. It really doesn’t matter anymore--they don’t need him to trust his word for another trial. So Draco gives back the small jar, looking behind him over his shoulders to look at his parents, who nod encouragingly at him, and so he leaves the room. 

Outside in the hall the air’s almost cold in comparison to the inside of that crowded room, a difference he appreciates, as if leaving behind the excruciating heat and the trial all at the same time. He sighs deeply, leaning against the door, thanking Merlin that everything’s over now. Whatever happens, it’ll be. He’s done what he had to do. At least he was granted a trial and it seems it’s taken place under the best circumstances. 

Some minutes later, he knows he’s just kidding himself. He has done nothing, as usual, except talking through the Veritaserum. It seems Potter’s still hovering over him, still on that high pedestal, now worshipped by the whole bloody Wizarding World; as usual, always above him. On this instance, he got a full Court to truly listen to his point of view and his probably extenuating circumstances. Merlin only knows if he’s the one who granted trials for him and his family. 

Flatly refusing to believe such a lie, he goes back to the bench they were before the trial, who knows how long was that from now. He sits at the same spot, the corner farthest from the room, and crosses arms and legs, willing to wait for his parents. Even if their trials are going to be way longer than his, he’s not leaving without them. They cannot be sent to prison again--even if it’s nothing like Azkaban. Haven’t they suffered enough as it is? 

At some point many minutes later, the doors of the trial room open and he hears briefly an indistinct heated conversation before the doors are closed and it’s completely silent again. Then, a single pair of footsteps comes his way, echoing in the pristine marble floor and spacious hall. The person, whoever he is, stops a few feet from the bench--fearing who it might be, he doesn’t even care to raise his head. 

But of course, Potter just couldn’t understand his feelings and give him a few more minutes of peaceful solitude. 

“How’re you doing?” 

He inhales deeply, trying to swallow any sarcastic comebacks that just wouldn’t do today or in this place, before meeting his gaze. Potter’s leaning carelessly against the wall, but Draco thinks he sees worry in his eyes. Or it’s just his imagination. 

“Stellar,” he replies. 

Potter snorts and steps away from the wall, sending Draco a hurtful look. 

“Appreciate the vote of confidence,” he scowls. 

Draco can’t tell where did he get it from, but a couple seconds later, Harry hands him a hot tea in a plastic cup. Reluctantly, he takes it, uncertain to ask if Potter’s poisoned the liquid in any way through a non-verbal spell. But it tastes good, for one. Potter waits till Draco’s finished the entire contents, he fills it up again and then starts speaking. 

“If it helps, I don’t think they’ll be charging you for anything--sentencing you for allowing breaking and entering would be mad.” 

He shuts up for some seconds, eyeing Draco over his shoulder, as if waiting for something that just doesn’t turns up. 

“Merlin, no smart mouth or sarcastic comment today? Must be pretty desperate.” 

“My family’s on trial right now,” reasons Draco. 

“And you shouldn’t worry about them either,” replies Potter, standing right in front of him and looking at him right in the eye to prove he’s saying the truth. “They don’t have any solid grounds to charge your mother for and they’re settling for a deal with your father if he provides enough information about the few remaining Death Eaters who’re still at large. I’m guessing he’ll take it.” 

Draco nods a few times, thanking both the information and the more than possible meddling he’s done in there to get that kind of treatment, without really looking at him. However, seconds later he realizes with disgust that Potter’s still standing in front of him. 

“Well, you’ve delivered your report, you can go back in there now, or vanish whichever way you prefer.” 

The man doesn’t budge and Draco’s forced to look up at him--and he’s surprised to see him smiling kindly. 

“How’re you holding up? Be honest for once.” 

“Stop being this pain in the ass, Potter. It doesn’t really matter,” scowls Draco, dropping his head again. 

Despite everything, the words escape his lips even before he realizes he’s doing so. 

“Please tell me Weasley and Granger weren’t there.” 

“No, I was the only one crazy enough to willingly assist these trials,” sighs Potter. 

“Thank Merlin. The last thing I wanted was for--” 

“Watch your language or I’m going back in there and demand a life sentence for the three of you. And trust me, they’ll grant me that.” 

Draco stares up at him for some long seconds, being fully aware that Potter’s words are completely honest--he wasn’t just being a show off. Though he would never acknowledge that fact, his family is hanging by a thin thread. 

“I was just going to say I needn’t the extra embarrassment, having you three in there, watching my humiliation.” 

“Wouldn’t call it ‘humil--”

“So it’s because of you, that we’re not going to jail?” demands Draco before Potter finishes that one sentence. 

“Partially,” grants Potter in a deep sigh, his hands on his front trousers pockets. An answer that gets a scowl and wishes for someone to drop dead from Draco. “We are really trying to change things around here. Most of your actions can be justified, Draco--although not exactly understood. Bottom line is, the Ministry has been futile and useless for decades now--it’s time that changed.” 

“Damn Golden Boy,” he scoffs incredulous, making the cup vanish. 

“If you want to put it that way,” whispers him, apparently as tired as Draco himself of that nickname and thousand others. 

They stay in silence for some long seconds, maybe two minutes, though it isn’t as uncomfortable as before to any of them. They’re all alone, there’s nothing else to be said; and yet, none of them wants to stand and leave the bench. And then, it’s Draco who speaks first. 

“Can I ask you something?” 

Potter shrugs, as if that were a good answer, raising his arms. 

“Look around and tell me if something’s stopping you.” 

Draco tries to overlook his old classmate’s stupidity and focuses on his question. 

“Why’d you do this?” 

“I’ve been asked the same a fair number of times, mind you.” 

“Wow, that really comes as a shock,” he scowls, the old Draco finally showing. “Honestly, what the heck is going on inside that head of yours? I never could answer myself that riddle.” 

“It’s a very good question,” he acknowledges, hiding a chuckle. “I just figured--what’s the point? There’s been more than enough suffering. Everyone’s just trying to move on. Yes, these trials were demanded by one and by all, but I’m not exactly sure people were looking for exemplary sentences. Just wanted to put an end to all of this and move on.” 

“No, I didn’t mean why you’re here, here; at this moment, on this trial--I understand why these trials have taken place. I wanted to know why you spoke on my behalf.” 

“D’you want a jail sentence for you and your family that bad? ‘Cause if so, that can be rearranged easily, don’t worry--just say the word,” replies Potter. 

“Come on. Get your head out of your ass. I only--” 

“I understood what you meant, Draco, I was just stalling--didn’t want to answer.” 

“That’s fairly reassuring,” scoffs him. 

But he awaits, arms crossed, looking at Potter the same way he was looking at him earlier. The man, after sighing deeply, drops into the bench without even bothering to ask if he minded. He probably wouldn’t have listened either way. 

They don’t look at each other nor speak again for some time, the question hovering over them, till Potter finds the will and the words to answer. 

“It just seemed wrong, you know? Too many people were devastated by the War. I mean, for Merlin’s sake, just look at us both; we didn’t finish our education at Hogwarts and yet we find each other again in a Criminal Court at the Ministry of Magic. How screwed up is that, I wonder?” 

He lets out a half laugh that’s not funny at all and resumes speaking without waiting for an answer to his question. 

“We’re both damaged enough as it is at this point. You don’t need a jail sentence on your shoulders too. You know of Professor Lupin’s son?” 

“I’ve heard of him, yeah,” confirms Draco, though the abrupt change of subject got him baffled. “He’s the son of that Auror lady, Nymphadora, isn’t he?” 

“His two parents died in the Battle of Hogwarts,” confirms Potter. “People’ve been calling him ‘orphan of the Second War’. And it’s just one of the many examples I could give you of people who didn’t survive the War or, if they did, they still haven’t overcome it. The War left so damage behind, so many losses, so much pain. . . We needed these trials, of course, there are things that simply must be; but I’m sure the people on trial are as much or even more tired than any of us. Most of them, such as yourself, only did what they did out of shame and fear--they were only mistakes. If we’d punished you all... It would have been contrary to all those bright ideas of moving forward, you know? You’d be in jail for life and you’d ended up wishing for another Dark Lord to raise.” 

“Come on, I don’t think anyone would--” 

“Remorse, pain, rage,” interjects Potter, too caught up with his speech, “that’s what you’d be feeding for the rest of your lives. What’s the point in sowing them any further? Unless we want more hate and discrimination, which will only lead to a split-in-two Wizarding World, it’s better this way.” 

“Some people were expecting fair punishments,” Draco observes. 

“And I’ll speak personally to each and everyone of them if I have to,” promises Potter, even though he looks too tired to face anything of that sort, “but I won’t be having people demonstrating in front of the Ministry for exemplary executions of Death Eaters. That’s not how we end with this Dark Era in Magic history, or with everything that led to the raising of a Dark Wizard.” 

Draco leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, letting sink in those words. Ever since the Battle of Hogwarts he’s been under the Ministry’s eye and didn’t bother to make time to think about what the afterwards of the War meant to everyone else. Guess these trials have been a great test for everyone. 

“I was an only child and spoiled rotten ever since the day I was born,” whispers Draco, very slowly. 

He talks without shifting his eyes from the wall in front of them. Besides him, Potter doesn’t move an inch, but he notices his stare on his neck and knows he’s listening intently to his every word. 

“Add to that being of high social class, distantly related to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, and destined to be a Slytherin, and you have a perfectly stupid, accommodated, bully, pureblood wizard used to getting his own way thanks to our status and money. But all with a minor comeback: I had to follow my family’s path. It didn’t seem like much at the beginning--I was respected, I was feared, I was obeyed thanks to my name. I was stupid and arrogant at best. Until it all went south.” 

“Dear old Voldy reappeared,” says Potter, and despite his words, Draco understands he wasn’t only trying to be funny. 

“Indeed,” agrees the Malfoy heir. “And had to follow my parent’s path, even when they didn’t even want to do it, not really. But I had no other choice. I didn’t know better. I didn’t realize the hole I was digging until I was already ten feet underground and it was way too late to amend it. And I couldn’t have tried if I wanted to: he had my parents. So I chose what I thought to be the easy path, not the right one--I know that now. It wasn’t the life I would have chosen. Yet, I didn’t have anyone to turn to and ask for help. I was lost. Still am, in a way.” 

After some minutes, noticing he won’t say anything else, Potter rests a shaky, undecided hand on his shoulder--a gesture that’s as uncomfortable for him than for Draco himself. And yet, it works for the both of them. It’s enough in order to ask forgiveness and to be forgiven. 

“Don’t be too hard on yourself,” begs Potter in a barely audible whisper. “It could have been me had I been in your shoes. And in any case, it’s all over now, so get over it and move on you, too.” 

The door of the trial room opens and the two of them move away from each other; Potter even resorts to standing up and steps away from the bench fixing his robe. And given the strange look he receives from Mrs. Malfoy, it’s probably for the best no-one’s seen them making peace and getting along. Draco’s spirits lift up in a second; it seems what Potter said before is true, the Ministers are actually letting them go free, despite every stupid thing they did in the past years. 

“If it’s any consolation, you’re not the only one lost here. I’m facing a crossroad too, at the moment,” replies Potter in a whisper as Narcissa comes their way. 

Draco just scoffs, that being the worst lie he’s ever heard coming from Potter’s lips; if it was meant to help him in any way, he can tell him so now, it didn’t. 

“Really? You. Golden Boy? The Boy Who Lived? The Defeater--?” 

“You know better than myself that those nicknames don’t mean a goddamn thing,” he interjects before he spends a full minute listing all of Potter’s varying surnames, a number which has only increased in time. 

“Guess that’s true,” acknowledges him, cocking his head. 

“Luckily, there’s no hurry--we’ve got the rest of our lives, now that this nightmare is finally coming to an end, to figure what the heck do we want to do for a living,” sums up Potter. Draco’s mother’s already within hearing range and so he finishes his sentence loud enough for all the hall to hear him. “Can’t be school enemies forever. 

“And though I’m not keen to see you again, Draco, I do hope you and your family the best and wish you happiness. Good luck from now on.”

He bows his head to Mrs. Malfoy, but meets the woman in the middle of the corridor, before she gets too close to the bench where Draco’s waiting for her mother. He’d predicted Malfoy’d be interested in what he’d stop to say to the woman, but Harry doesn’t want him listening. 

“Ma’am, I know this might not be the place or time, but I’d like to have a couple words with you, if that’s alright,” he says politely. Giving her, despite everything, still the chance to say no. 

“Mr. Potter. Please, not right now,” begs the woman. 

She looks way too distressed and not ready at all to anything he might want to say--comprehensively. This whole ordeal still isn’t over for a lot of people. It’ll take some time to get back on track. He sighs deeply, nodding a couple times, showing he understands. 

“Excuse my bluntness and impropriety,” he whispers, bowing his head again. 

“It’s OK, Mr. Potter,” replies Mrs. Malfoy, surprised by Harry’s formal answer to her denial. “I just hoped we could talk some other time.” 

“Certainly,” he promises. “May I take the liberty of writing you sometime soon?” 

“Of course, whenever you want, as soon as--” her sentence drifts off as she looks over her shoulder at the Court room where her husband’s still testifying before the Wizardry jury. Harry follows her gaze, his heart in a fist. He’s tired of seeing people suffering, specially if they were related to Death Eaters and Lord Voldemort. There’s been more than enough. 

“Do not fret,” he begs, bravely daring to caress Mrs. Malfoy’s arm tenderly, “he won’t be charged.” 

Mrs. Malfoy looks down on him desperately, barely believing such words. Too good to be true. 

“Are you--Are you--” she stutters, without strength to finish the sentence, the tears she’s been holding back for months on end finally threatening to show and betray her. 

“I’m fairly certain, ma’am,” promises Harry, holding Narcissa by the arms, noticing she can barely stand. 

“Thank you,” she whispers. 

She steps backwards from Harry reluctantly, slowly, still waiting for the punch line that’ll tell her he was only mocking her. But his amiable smile doesn’t vanish and the concern in his eyes is genuine--she somehow believes in him. 

“I’ll leave you two now,” he says, looking up at Draco, who approaches her mother too. 

“I’ll be expecting your owl, then,” says Mrs. Malfoy as she hugs Draco tightly, not caring as much as her son to show an affectionate motherly gesture. 

“Thank you, ma’am. Afternoon, Mrs. Malfoy, Draco,” he bids farewell politely, bowing his head to Narcissa. 

As mother and son start talking in whispers, expressing their concern for Mr. Malfoy in spite of Harry’s promises, he walks across the corridor and steps into the Court once more--with any luck, last time he does so today--so he can intervene, if necessary, also in Mr. Malfoy’s trial. Even if the Wizengamot’s against his idea, he will not step down; this family doesn’t deserve further punishment for their actions. It’s just wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can see, I truly believe in Draco's redemption arc--is one of the few things I consider canon from the Cursed Child. I'm sorry if you don't believe the same, but Draco and the Malfoys will be appearing now and then in future chapters. I'll mention it in the summary so you can, if you want to, skip the chapter.


	56. Chapter 56

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In an attempt to getting their lives in order after the War, Harry starts off by fulfilling one of the duties he once vowed to do: to take care of Teddy Lupin, the son of Remus and Tonks

A tremulous hand raises to knock on the door, its owner almost fearing what he might face when he finally finds the courage to do so. He’s got no idea on how will he be received or handle the conversation, but on the other hand, he’s certain of two things: he has a mission and he cannot leave--again--without doing it. Ginny, who insisted on joining him this time, wouldn’t let him. 

He’s so doubtful his mind barely registers anything around him. A tornado could be tearing apart the houses of the street; it could be either a chilly December morning or a pleasant, sunny sunday afternoon. He hasn’t even noticed if there are any pedestrians on the street, much less if there are families at the nearby park; and it could be ten seconds, or ten minutes, until Andromeda does finally come to her door--either way, he’s so not ready for it. 

The woman’s smile and pleasant façade drop as she answers and recognizes the two visitors, welcoming them with rather a sharp and cold treatment. 

“Afternoon. What are you two doing here?” 

“Fulfilling your daughter's and your son-in-law’s last wish,” answers Harry formally, ‘cause that’s one of the only statements he could have prepared beforehand. 

“Oh,” understands Andromeda, looking down on him--no other way of describing her look, “you’re here to take my grandchild away from me.” 

As Harry’s heart sinks to the floor, Ginny steps forward. 

“That is NOT it and you know it,” she says rudely. Even if she’s come only to support Harry on this family visit, she will not let Andromeda walk over him, not when his intentions are, after all, noble. 

Harry takes a deep breath in, grabbing her arm. “It’s OK, Ginny,” he sighs. “I understand you might think that, Andromeda, but if you’d please listen. . .” 

“What’d you have to say?” she interjects. “What could you possibly say that’d make me agree to this? You say you want to take care of your godson? When you haven’t seen him in months?” 

“Andromeda, I am truly, deeply sorry for this--one of many of my regrets,” he says, regretting once again pretty much every decision he’s made since the end of the War. “Things haven’t been easy lately.” 

“Yours isn’t the only case.” 

“I know that--I don’t have the spotlight on suffering,” he promises. “All I’m saying is that I’m trying to mend that, fix everything I broke by turning a blind eye on them for far too long. Give me at least that chance. Please.” 

“The chance to take my grandchild away from the only place he can call home,” she attacks once more, as if Harry’s words didn’t mean anything to her. And probably, they don’t. 

“To take care of my godson as if he were one of my own children,” says Harry. 

“What right do you think you have over that child? His life’s been hard enough.”

Harry’s heart sinks--he knows first-hand how hard Teddy’s life must have been in his brief, tumultuous two-year existence. He clutches Ginny’s hand to keep focus, which to the woman seems to be the permission sign to interject once more. 

“Why don’t we continue this conversation inside?, instead of standing out here in the cold?” suggests Ginny, interjecting what was certainly going to be an infuriated response from Andromeda. “How ‘bout it?” 

Andromeda ponders her options for one long minute--then walks away from the entrance, not even waiting for them as british custom indicates. Ginny and Harry sigh at the same time--first task, getting what they consider an invitation to enter the house, check. At Harry’s signal Ginny comes in first and takes off her coat, which Harry grabs and hangs his and hers after closing the door. 

“D’you remember where the nursery is?” demands Andromeda coldly. Harry’s heart skips a beat at the accusation--luckily this is something he could never forget. 

“Down the hall. Thank you,” he acknowledges. 

He grabs Ginny’s arm and heads for said room, without another word, praying that Andromeda won’t follow them--he just needs one more second on his own. Though for that matter, if it weren’t for Ginny, he’d disapparate from the house right now. 

They get to the nursery and their gloomy moods disappear. The small place of peaceful and solitude is drastically different from the quarrel that’s unraveled, and will still take place, down on the living room. But for now, Teddy allows them to momentarily forget all about it and just stare in awed amusement at him, with a very similar peaceful smile--though Ginny does so without remorse eating her alive. 

Baby’s sound asleep on his back, in his multicolor pajamas, laying on a thick carpet on the floor, his tiny hands on both sides of his head, his little tummy raising and lowering peacefully as he inhales and exhales, his short hair changing colors even in his sleep. Completely unaware of the two adult figures looking down at him in joy and blissful smiles, without daring to move, speak or barely breathe, the only light coming from the living room and the kitchen. 

After locking eyes, Ginny sighs deeply and straightens, grabbing Harry’s wrist. 

“Don’t wake him up,” she whispers, trying to get him away from the room before he does something he might regret. And without any opposition, Harry lets her drag him gently out of the room into the hall, closing the door behind them swiftly. 

“Hey, listen to me,” orders she, forcing him to look her in the eye. “You know I know why you’re doing this. But don’t do it for the wrong reasons, you hear me?” 

He nods a couple times, acknowledging so, still staring at his godson’s room, but they don’t have a chance to share another word. 

“You want some tea, dear?” Andromeda’s voice raises from the kitchen. 

Goodbye to the peace and joy, scowl internally the two of them, as Harry’s head drops. 

“Oh, please, don’t go through all that trouble.”

His voice breaks mid-sentence out of nervousness, betraying him. Ginny rests a hand on his shoulder, reassuringly, but also as a warning. He’s not leaving this house without doing this again. 

“It’ll be just a sec. Thankfully, with magic things don’t take too long.” 

And before he can say anything else to stop her and make this visit any more uncomfortable, there’s a soft swipe and from the kitchen emerges the usual racket for making tea, only ten times faster than the muggle way and they head towards the living room. Not two minutes later Andromeda reappears carrying a tray with a kettle, cups and biscuits hovering at her elbow's height. 

Harry releases Ginny’s hand and tries to help Andromeda set the table, but the cutlery and drinks and snacks place themselves in front of the couch and armchair, leaving him with nothing to do with his hands other than standing stupidly. Andromeda offers him a warm smile as she sits down on the armchair, signaling him to do the same. Ginny has to pull him off the sleeve. 

“Thanks for all this,” he says, manners the only thing that keep him moving. And since he hasn’t been exactly polite recently, as in, the past couple of years, the informal conversation dies only too soon. 

Andromeda puts her cup on the little plate and smiles with forced politeness at the couple sitting awkwardly in front of her. 

In the end, it’s Harry the first one to give in, sighing deeply, his head dropped. 

“Andromeda, with all due respect, I’d appreciate it if we didn’t make out of this a bigger fuss than needed,” he begs, his voice proving he’s close to despair. 

However, even if the woman can notice it or not, doesn’t offer him the shred of doubt. 

“Well, Harry, I am sorry to inform you that what you wish for is impossible.” 

“Look, I’ll apologize all the--” 

“You’ve apologized more times than you should,” interjects Ginny--and for once, it seems Andromeda agrees with them, or her. 

“I don’t want your apologies, Harry,” she says. 

“But you do,” replies the boy. “Moreover, I think you really want to hear what I have to say.” 

Ginny reaches a hand to not-so-gently grab Harry’s. “What the heck are you talking about?” 

“Your fiancée took the words out of my mouth,” adds Andromeda, the faintest smile on her lips. 

The two women taking the same side against him, his words and his actions, almost desperate the young man, but he takes one more deep breath instead of rushing things and start yelling--it would do no good, neither to Teddy or with Andromeda. 

“Well, let me explain,” begs him finally. 

Taking the silence as a permission, Harry stares at one spot on the wall behind Andromeda while he speaks. 

“I’m sorry I haven’t come sooner to check on Teddy, to make sure you two were doing alright, to take care of him and show him he’s loved. I should have stayed by my godson’s side--I’m afraid that’s not an uncommon mistake in my family and yet, I couldn’t do better than my own godfather. I should have learnt the truth earlier: that Teddy needed me. And I should have listened months ago; I should have been on your doorstep minutes after the War ended. 

“I was just too afraid to face him and accept the reality: that he was just like me, yes, survivors of a War, orphans of a War, that I was the most apropriate person to help him. But I ended up knowing my godson only through your letters and pictures. Which is wrong in every possible way.” 

He’s needed some long minutes to speak his mind but Andromeda hasn’t tried to refute any of his arguments thoughout his speech. But afterwards she doesn’t say anything either; nor attack him again, condone him, pardon him or, even worse, yell at him--she just stares at him blanly. As if not believing his words. Losing it just a tiny bit, Harry sighs, pulling his hair, before trying again from a different angle. 

“Look, I still don’t know either what on Earth were your daughter and son-in-law thinking when they decided to pinpoint me as Teddy’s godfather--” 

“Please, Harry,” Andromeda interjects him finally, “I thought it was obvious. Of course you know why they chose you. My daughter and Remus always knew that you’d survive the War. Never doubted it. If anyone could, it was only you. And they weren’t wrong or dreaming--the whole World thought so.”

“Thanks,” whispers Harry, barely audible, before clearing his throat. 

In the brief time he got to know Remus and Sirius, both men had a strange confidence in him. They took care of him, they listened to him; they cared for him. And, as it turns out, strangely they trusted him too to death. It was one of the only times he felt like an adult, not a child--and he isn’t sure if all that was only because he was James and Lily’s son. He may never know if they trusted him or James, but either way, he truly appreciates the distinction.

“Dora and Remus trusted me with their child and I’ve failed miserably--and to you too. I just have to make this one thing right. I owe at least this much to them, since I wasn’t even able to save their lives.” 

Andromeda’s already shaking her head before Harry’s finished talking. It seems the tables have turned and it’s Andromeda’s turn to reassure and help Harry, this young man who’s faced too many horrible experiences in his twenty years of living. 

“Dear, please, you have to see truth. Dora and Remus’s deaths, and so many others, aren’t your fault. We owe it to you that we’re all still breathing.” 

“If it weren’t for me, they both’d still be alive.”

“If it weren’t for you, Teddy wouldn’t have been born and I’d never have been a grandmother,” replies she instantly. “Dear, if you’ve come seeking forgiveness, I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong place. There’s nothing you should apologize for.”

“I think Teddy could be against that statement.”

“Teddy’s too young to understand anything that’s being said here.”

“But not that young not to understand his parents are gone,” says Harry, knowing that feeling only too well. And this time, Andromeda can’t refute the accusation, remembering some difficult nights when it was almost impossible to make Teddy go to sleep. “Look, I’m only saying there’re too many things not right in my life and I’m trying to fix them one by one.”

Ginny, by his side, scoffs incredulously, taking his hand, sick and tired of arguing with him about that one point and thousand of others. Andromeda, luckily or not, isn’t. 

“Oh, please, how many things do you think you have to mend? Dear, don’t you think you’ve done enough as it is?” she demands with a high-pitched surprised voice. 

“I--Don’t think I follow,” confesses Harry. 

But Ginny certainly does, since she scoffs again and pats his hand as if he were a child, a gesture followed, he knows, by a roll of her eyes. In front of them, Andromeda smiles politely, without never trying to be condescending. 

“Grimmauld Place no longer exists, you’re no longer the Ministry’s or the Daily Prophet’s puppet, you were one of the wizards who helped rebuild the castle of Hogwarts, Azkaban has been destroyed, you’ve taken care that everyone who fought in the battle of Hogwarts got the honors and glory he deserved; you’ve attended, inexplicably if I may say so myself, each and every one of the trials of Death Eaters to make sure they were judged and condemned fairly for their actions, you've given second and third chances to an awful lot of them. And you think that’s not worthy of anything?”

“No, it isn’t,” he replies instantly, as if dismissing the long list of milestones Andromeda’s just mentioned and everyone in the World, except for him, agrees on. 

“Not one of those things meant anything to my closest, loved ones. I haven’t compensated the wrong I did to my family,” he says, looking sideways at Ginny, but referring to an awful number of people. “And I never fulfilled my duties towards Teddy.”

Ginny, as she so usually does when he brings that subject up, squeezes his hand tightly, and he does his best to breathe in deeply. However, he’s never changed his point of view. How could he, when he’s saying nothing but the truth. 

“I had so many things to take care of and I forgot most of them due to a freaking War and losing sight of what was really important,” he says, looking straight at Ginny, who can't exactly deny that. 

But Andromeda, apparently, does have some arguments than no-one of Harry's family has provided before, even though everyone’s tried to talk reason to him. 

“Dear, no one’s got their lives set on track when they’re 21, much less after surviving a Wizarding War. From what I see, you’ve mend most of the relationships and bonds that were broken. You’ve forgiven some of your worst enemies. You are in a strong, solid relationship. I’ve heard you’ve just been hired as the new DADA teacher at Hogwarts, which is a very respectable and stable job. Hell, you’re doing much better than my own daughter at your age, in spite of never graduating Hogwarts.”

“Listen, listen,” demands Ginny, signaling Andromeda with her head. “Listen and for once, start to believe what they’re saying to you.” 

“Don’t be so harsh on yourself, dear, it’s painful to see.”

Harry stares into Andromeda’s eyes for some long seconds till he can’t hold it anymore and drops his head to avoid anyone’s stare. Ginny rubs his shoulder reassuringly and talks to him in whispers. Noticing he’s close to breaking down, crying quietly without them seeing, the two women stay in silence for a few minutes, not at all uncomfortable with the situation, contrary to Harry. He’s a boy with too much on his plate, trying to mend too many things, few of which could wait. The boy’s allowed to have feelings and showing them, if not out in the public, at least amongst family. 

Couple minutes in, he sniffs loudly and just to pretend, even if it’s in front of Ginny and Andromeda, grabs a biscuit and takes a couple bites. Ginny takes it as her queue and turns to Andromeda. 

“So you didn’t want an apology and respect Remus and Dora’s wishes,” she sums up. “Are you against the idea of us taking Teddy?” 

“No, that is not--” she tries to reply, but thinks it through and doesn’t finish the sentence. “In a way, being completely honest here, I think it could be it, yeah. Taking care of Teddy on your own?” 

A little taken aback, Harry exchanges a brief look with Ginny, who, for the first time since setting foot into the house, looks a bit lost too. 

“Why is that an issue?” 

“That’s exactly my point. Why do you want to take him? Now?” 

“I haven’t done what I promised I’d do in the event of. . . You know,” he doesn’t dare to say again what caused Remus and Dora’s deaths; he’s just too tired of remembering it. “I owe it to them.” 

“You’ve got enough on your plate, Harry, you probably don’t need Teddy also--”

“With all due respect, Andromeda, I don’t think I’ve ever been more certain of a decision I’ve made. I’d like to honor Dora Lupin and Remus Lupin’s last wish. I’ll--we’ll--take care of their son.” 

“Are you sure you want to do this? He’s a two-year-old kid. You two are probably nowhere ready after all that’s going on--”

“Don’t worry, all of Ginny’s family--”

“Our family,” interjects her, “is more than thrilled by the idea. They all are willing to give us more than a hand, if needed.”

Andromeda doesn’t argue anymore, whether it is because she cannot find any reasons to, and leans on the sofa, crossing her arms, staring at the couple in front of her--who answer with resolute faces and polite, amiable smiles. In the end, she sighs as she straightens. 

“Fine. Seems like you did think it through. I hope you have your house suitably prepared for a toddler to live in--take him.” 

As if he’d heard his queue, Teddy appears from the corridor, not just walking on his two feet, but rather, running, dashing across the room to get to the sofa his godfather’s seating in, raising his arms. He doesn’t need to say out loud his request--Harry leans in to grab him by the armpits and raises him up in the air, tickling him by blowing onto his belly. Teddy’s delightful laughter roars into the room and the three adults smile unconsciously--the only respnse adequate to such a beautiful sound. 

“Uncle Haddy,” whispers Teddy, as Harry lets him on his lap and the toddler leans on him. 

“Hello, buddy,” says the godfather. “Did you sleep well?” 

“Yeah,” answers the toddler, but he’s not interested at all in unimportant chit-chat. “Want to play?” 

“Sure,” says Harry, despite being in the midst of an important conversation with Andromeda, ‘cause he’d never say no to this child, especially when it involves making him happy with such a simple request. 

He helps Teddy get to the ground. The boy, as soon as his feet land, dashes towards an awful amount of toys spread around the living room. What’s caught his eye this time seems to be a box filled with linking cubes construction toys, on a four-cromatic base, as in blue, red, yellow and green. Teddy grabs some, sits where he stands and fixes two of the pieces together before he realizes his godfather isn’t still there with him and turning around. He doesn’t have to go too far; Harry’s followed him and was just about to lay by the kid’s side. Teddy hands him a few pieces. 

“I can play with these?” he asks, as in to let Teddy know he’s in charge. 

“Yeah,” Teddy allows him. “Big, big castle.” 

“Very tall?” asks Harry, rising a hand to Teddy’s height, so they both know what’s at stake exactly. Teddy’s grin gets bigger, if possible, and nods eagerly a couple of times, before throwing at him some more cubes. 

“Here.” 

“Well, thank you,” says Harry. 

He leans in to kiss Teddy’s cheek but the toddler’s too immersed already in his games and doesn’t answer to him in any way, putting together two yellow cubes. In slow motion, following Teddy’s pace, Harry starts building a four-pieces base tower, every piece a different color, matching Teddy’s taste. As it so happens, Teddy’s hair changes methodically depending on the color of the cube he grabs each time. 

From the sofa and the armchair, Ginny and Andromeda stare at godfather and godson playing mindlessly, joyfully. Seeing the two of them like this, it is undeniable their chemistry and the special bond they share despite the brief time they’ve really spent together in the past months. But it was enough, apparently, for the kid and the man to play together easily and with big smiles on their faces, laughing now and then--when one of the constructions breaks and instead of making a big deal of it, Harry just makes Teddy giggle before starting over, better and bigger this time. They notice Harry’s grin, attempting to conceal a burst of laughter, when Teddy explains to him or tries to in his basic knowledge of English language, how to do a special kind of structure with the cubes. 

At some point, Andromeda leans in and squeezes Ginny’s knee so she looks at her again. She speaks in a whisper, though it’s almost impossible for Harry, much less Teddy, to hear her--they’re too focused and entertained by their game. 

“Seeing this, I’m certain you two’d want to raise a family on your own. Have you really thought this through?”

The girl smiles fondly at her and grabs a reassuring hold of her hand. 

“Andromeda, as you’ve said, Harry’ll be starting teaching at Hogwarts, and I’ve got my trainings and matches with the Holyhead Harpies. None of this will stop us from taking good care of Teddy, but we’re certain we won’t be thinking of children anytime soon.” 

Andromeda raises both hands in the air, as if showing she’s letting the discussion go for good, before standing as well. Forgetting their cold tea altogether, both her and Ginny join Teddy and Harry playing on the ground--Andromeda caresses Teddy’s hair warmly, and kisses his forehead before lying on her side as well--forming a circle around the toddler, grabbing some cubicles that were out of the toddler’s reach. The cubicle tower, as it seems, is making great progress. Actually, Teddy is giving Harry some pieces for him to add at the top of it, since the tower’s already taller than he is. 

“Grandma, look ‘ow tall!” exclaims Teddy, showing triumphantly the tower. 

“I can see,” says the woman, adding yet another piece to the structure. “It’s pretty amazing.” 

“D’you want green?” suggests Ginny, handing him a piece of said color. 

Teddy ponders on the pieces he’s shown, a red one from Andromeda, a blue from Harry and Ginny’s green one. As it turns out, he’s keen to his godfather, more than they’d care to admit. 

“No, blue!” he exclaims, pointing at it. 

Nodding, Harry puts the piece where Teddy orders him to and, afterwards, the child claps in excitement. It might be a good idea to break the tower into two smaller parts so Teddy can add pieces up on his own, but he’d have none of it; Harry’s already tried. The toddler prefers handling a servant and bossing around, apparently. 

“Are you hungry, young man?” asks Andromeda then, as Teddy’s processing the remaining cubicles around him. “You want to eat?” 

“No, not now,” says him. 

If he were hungry he’d probably say the same thing--he’s too focused on his tower at this moment, chosing what color should go next. 

“But you have to eat something,” insists Andromeda and just like this, the kid gives up. Harry and Ginny share a look, fearing they won’t be as authoritative as the woman, nor will get such a submissive treatment from the kid. 

“What do you want?” asks Harry, poking on the kid’s side. 

He ponders for a brief moment. “An apple,” he says finally. 

“A peeled, sliced apple coming up,” nods Andromeda. 

“I can--” 

“It’s okay, you stay here, please,” Andromeda stops Ginny, who was about to stand up. 

She kisses Teddy once more before heading to the kitchen, leaving Harry and Ginny with Teddy. And at that moment Harry understands what is in all honesty, truly obvious; and what could have saved him a headache and a discussion had he realized so sooner. This meeting and Andromeda’s general opposition to him and Ginny taking Teddy isn’t about them at all. Maybe at some extent she fears they’re not fit to raise a two-year-old together, which might be true; but deep down, all the reluctance and refusal were due because if they take Teddy, they take Andromeda’s last family member, after losing Dora, Ted and even Remus, to a War. Her only grandchild was probably the last piece she had to hold it all together and cope with everything. She had a reason to move on. 

Playing along Teddy with mechanical moves, following his instructions, Harry turns to Ginny, who looks up at him. They might be responsible enough to take care of Teddy, but they can’t take him away from Andromeda. She needs to be a part, a vital part, in his life, his development, his growing up. Even if it’s not for Andromeda, he has to do it for Teddy--he’ll live a joyful life, he’ll know happiness and love. What happened to him growing up without parents won’t happen to Teddy as well.


	57. Chapter 57

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Hinny, along with some of their family members, visit Potter's Manor.

Thanks to Moony and Padfoot’s preparations and rather dark prospects for the future, Harry wasn’t forced to break into his family Manor. On the other hand, just a kick with a child’s strength would have been enough to bring the door down--that’s how deteriorated Potter Manor is nowadays, after decades of no-one stepping inside the mansion. But accessing the place with a proper key and avoiding committing a felony does much better with Harry’s current state of mind. Plus, none of them looked forward a visit from the Ministry and having to explain a break-in and entering at Harry’s own place.  
   
What they saw at the entrance and the abandoned fields was just a taste of what welcomes them inside of the Manor. Years of abandonment and no one caring about the place can transform what used to be a magnificent Manor into a sullen, lonely and pitiful shattered place, just a distant remnant of what Potter Manor used to be--a sight that only remains in the memories of a handful of people now.  
   
That group includes too Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. They were here in this Manor for James and Lily’s wedding, and for a couple of dinners with the Potters, and then occasionally after some Order mission where this Manor was chosen as the rendezvous point. Still, the changes--decay--this Manor’s suffered is equally painful to see. But they try not to think too much about it. Today they’re here for Harry--to help him throughout this day without him having a nervous breakdown altogether. He never got to see this Manor during its splendor, but it is still the family home he never got the chance to live in.  
   
He’s leading the way with the tip of his wand lit, walking around like a ghost, almost wandering inside the house he was supposed to know by heart at this age, staring at all the paintings and pictures and books that should be familiar but are completely foreigners to him. Looking beyond the layers of dust and spiders’ nest that cover everything, he gets to see the briefest glimpse of what his family house used to look like: the dining room with a gigantic table which could host at least twenty people and the spider lamp, the living room with pompous couches and armchairs and no TV nor radio, the kitchen where most certainly only house-elves worked in.  
   
“Feels like stepping into another era,” he whispers all of a sudden.  
   
Everyone agrees with that statement. They’re in one of the several ground floor reception rooms in the Manor--why on Earth would there be a need for four of those is a mystery to all of them--tastefully decorated, with high ceilings, stone fireplaces, Georgian sash windows, a gigantic chandelier. Furthermore, most of the pictures and gigantic mirrors hanging from the walls are framed in what appears to be a replica of gold--or so they hope. 

Ginny looks above her shoulder in case Harry meant something in particular. He’s staring down at an old world globe on the floor, on its wooden stand--although one of the legs is broken--certainly hand-crafted. What’s more alluring about it is the fact that’s a political map which still shows the British, Russian, Spanish and French Empires with their colonies all around the world.   
   
“Well, your grandparents were born in the last years of the 18th Century,” Ginny remarks.  
   
Harry chuckles under his breath, one hand raised without daring to actually touch the globe. 

“I know. I know.”  
   
When she looks over her shoulder to make sure Harry didn’t take it personally or anything, Ginny sees him taking a picture from a shelf and staring it for a long time, provided the fainted, dim light from his wand. He blows over the frame to wipe the dust off and she steps closer to look at it too. 

It’s an old picture of Harry’s grandparents, out in the salon, probably a lazy weekend morning--the sun’s up but they’re still in their dressing gowns, however posh and silk they were, and they appear to be having breakfast still. They smile broadly at the camera while holding out their tea mugs to each other in somewhat of a toast to celebrate a random, casual morning.  
   
Ginny grabs the picture from Harry’s hands before he dares to put it away.  
   
“Let’s take it home,” she says. She knew Harry would be in two minds about it, but she never thought he’d look at her as if she’d gone completely mad.  
   
“It’s just an old, dusty picture,” he replies. “We don’t need to take anything.”  
   
“They’re your family,” insists Ginny. “There’s a severe lack of the Potter lineage representation at our place.”  
   
She holds it close to her chest so Harry doesn’t try to take it from her again--after a beat or two, he nods in defeat. It is true they’ve managed to smuggle inside the house an awful lot of pictures from the Weasley family--Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, all of Ginny’s siblings and their weddings, and other family moments starring Ginny, such as some of her birthdays or some of the many family excursions the Weasleys used to do. Would be nice to have some non-ginger Potter representation somewhere in there. Even if they’re old, black and white pictures of people none of them ever got to meet.  
   
“Hey, here’s your parents,” Bill calls out all of a sudden from the other side of the living room.  
   
Harry heads there immediately and Bill hands him the picture in question. Looks like the Potters preferred taking pictures of completely normal and ordinary days rather than memorizing things out of the ordinary: this one too is a picture of James, Lily and Sirius, at some point during their academic years at Hogwarts, flashing big and proud smiles in front of the camera. She’s in the middle of the group, being hugged by Sirius by the shoulders, James by the waist--seems like they did make up somewhere after their fifth year. This looks like an actual family by blood, almost.   
   
“Must be the 1st of September of their seventh year,” says Harry. “I’ve got the same picture at home. That’s the Head Boy’s badge my father’s got on his chest.”  
   
“Good eye,” praises Billy, squirting his eyes in turn to try to see that detail. But Harry can’t really tell him how many hours he’s spent staring at that one picture, memorizing each tiny detail from the Manor and their parents.  
   
“You have this picture?” asks Ginny baffled.  
   
“Hagrid,” he says simply--a good enough response to one and all. “Although Sirius didn’t appear on the one in the album.”  
   
“Didn’t want to give you nightmares, I’m guessing,” mutters George under his breath. At the time Hagrid gave him the photo album of the Potters, Sirius Black was still considered a mass murderer who’d betrayed James and Lily Potter in spite of being one of their very best friends, leaving Harry orphan despite the fact that he was his godfather and supposedly the man who’d take him in should anything happen to his parents--not to mention that back then Harry had no idea of all that.  
   
“Now that you mention it, there are some frames without pictures,” mentions Mr. Weasley, picking up a couple of examples to show it to the family. Harry nods once more and they all assume it was Hagrid, again.  
   
“Should we make a general sweeping of the house?” suggests Mrs. Weasley. “So you can take some of this stuff home.”  
   
Harry spins around immediately upon those words.  
   
“No, really, that won’t be necessary,” he begs, raising a hand to he doesn’t know what end truly. Every last member of the Weasley family gathered stares at him quite flabbergasted.  
   
“Thought you wanted to get in touch with your past and your family?” asks Ginny very slowly, eyebrows frowned. She came here thinking Harry needed a stroll down memory lane. “Why, may I ask, did we come here for if not that?”  
   
He looks at her almost as equally baffled as she is.  
   
“Weren’t you the one who said I had to get rid of my ghosts, or something along those lines?”  
   
“Getting rid of the ghosts that haunt you,” she specifies with a roll of eyes--knowing Harry was just trying to twist her words to go accord to his point of view. “But this is your family, Harry, it’s completely different. Come on, let’s take look.”  
   
She grabs Harry by the arm and almost pushes him to the many shelves around the living room, dining room and the rest of the Manor’s rooms to take a good look at the framed pictures. They all depict, without fail, some random family moment of the Potters family: whether it was a family outing into the woods, or the time James broke his leg—certainly while practicing Quidditch—or having a casual drink at Diagon Alley, or just reading the papers early in the morning, taking care of an ill Sirius in bed, or playing a friendly Quidditch game. Even the house-elf, whose name Harry he could learn somehow, appears on some of those pictures: at breakfast, out in the gardens working the fields with the rest of the Potters, cooking all with James, Lily and Sirius.  
   
In their effort to search and investigate the whole house, Harry and Ginny find themselves up in the second floor, in what used to be James Potter’s old bedroom, where they can get an image of what Harry’s bedroom would look like had he been raised by the Potters. Everything’s red and most of the decorations are a clear nod to Quidditch: the blankets, pillows, curtains and carpet are all red; there are dozens of books dedicated to that wizardry sport, a suitcase that certainly belongs to a Quidditch kit and, most and foremost, an old broomstick leaning against the wall. Harry chuckles at that sight as he heads towards the furthest north corner and grabs the dusty broomstick.  
   
“Guess we’re taking that too?” asks Ginny behind him.  
   
“You mean to sweep the floor?” he replies, raising an eyebrow. The broomstick looks too old and too rusty to be useful for anything else.  
   
“Hey, don’t insult her,” scowls Ginny. “This right here could bloody well be your Firebolt’s grandfather. And I’m sure she could give you a run for your money, easily.”  
   
“Okay, okay, I take it back,” says Harry, standing with a sincere, warm smile on his lips for the first time since he’s stepped inside of the Manor. But then she’s also too caught up with other stuff to notice his state of mind: she’s knelt on the floor too and she’s rummaging the contents of that Quidditch box kit. Seems to be pleasantly surprised by what she finds.  
   
“Some of these are actually considered collector’s items, you know,” she reports. “They don’t do this kind of products anymore. And it’s a pity, really--they are good stuff.”  
   
“Well, take it,” suggests Harry.  
   
Ginny puts it all down immediately--and if she could see her face right now, she’d see in her eyes the same look Harry had earlier, when Mrs. Weasley suggested Harry to take a few memories back home.  
   
“I couldn’t possibly--”  
   
“Of course you can,” exclaims Harry. With a couple waves of his wand he shuts the box and sends it towards the dorm’s entrance so they don’t forget about it on their way out. “This will just accumulate more dust if you don’t use it. Really, I’m sure my father’ll be glad to have someone using it all for good means.”  
   
He seems to be very persuasive when he wants to, nods Ginny--less than half an hour ago Harry was uncertain about taking home a few framed pictures that belong to his own family, but now he’s nothing but encouraging her to take this Quidditch kit box and make good use of it in the near future. She doesn’t mention it, though--better to avoid any arguments in a day like today. Instead, she steps closer to the windows, without leaning too close--there are more shattered glasses than intact windows and the spiders’ web are frightening. But she gets the first proper view of the garden and it is truly remarkable. With a little bit of effort and proper care afterwards, this could become a little paradise on Earth--and the Weasleys know how to enlighten a garden cheap.  
   
“It’s beautiful,” Harry takes the words out of her mouth when they were just about to escape her throat. She smiles and nods to show that she agrees with the statement.  
   
“Let’s check it out too,” he says, grabbing her by the hand and spinning around. “Leave that--you can show off some other time, I promise,” he scowls when Ginny was just bound to take the broomstick with her.   
   
Regretting her decision, Ginny sets the broomstick where it was earlier, against the wall, and follows Harry out of the dormitory and down the stairs. When they reach the hall and realize they’re not alone, it almost surprises the two of them--for some brief moments they’d believed they were all alone in the Manor. Now, they see they were wrong: the other Weasley family members were waiting for them downstairs too.  
   
“Just wanted to check the gardens,” says Harry, pointing at the outside. He opens the front door and he and Ginny are the first ones to get out again--followed by everyone else. They soon scatter around the fields, however.  
   
Harry follows Ginny’s wandering at a slower pace, enjoying the two magnificent views he’s got before his eyes. The gardens could certainly use some taking care of, without a shred of doubt, but he just loves Ginny, the amazing woman that she is, with all his heart.  
   
At some point Ginny stops walking and Harry freezes too, a couple feet behind her. She takes in a very deep intake of air, raises her arms above her head and stretches, actually enjoying how the day turned out to be. She then turns to look at Harry and they exchange equally pleasant and warm smiles, proving that he is too mildly enjoying the day at the Potter Manor--but she’s noticed something else altogether.  
   
“Where are the others?” she asks, turning around to look for the rest of her family.  
   
“Probably decided to give us some alone time,” says Harry tilting his head.  
   
Ginny doesn’t think twice about it as she turns around again and contemplates the fields in front of her. She hears Harry stepping closer, but he stays on her back, not nearly as close as she’d hoped.  
   
“So you like it?” he asks after a couple of seconds.  
   
“Well, it is your home, Harry. Not that I want to live here--I never dreamed of a being a princess in a big house.”  
   
“No, I know that,” chuckles Harry, amused by that idea.  
   
“But it is nice,” she resumes. “Are you thinking about moving in?” she asks then, a little bit in despair.  
   
“’Course not,” scowls Harry. “Might be my family home but this doesn’t fulfill my dreams either. Our home and our life together fit them way, way better.”  
   
Ginny chuckles and she steps backwards to be closer to Harry, resting against his chest, grabbing his hands so he hugs her by the waist. He doesn’t budge and rests his head against her shoulder, still staring at the empty, gloomy gardens--pondering the possibilities.  
   
“So--now that we’ve established we’re not moving in, how’d you feel about giving it a second chance?”  
   
“You mean. . . Like allowing Hermione to do here that gala for the Ministry she can’t find a venue for?”  
   
“Perhaps,” accepts Harry, tilting his head, prompting some chuckles from Ginny as his stubble grazed her skin and tickled her. “But I was thinking something more of the lines of--this.”  
   
Ginny waits in silence for a couple beats, but Harry doesn’t specify what ‘this’ means exactly, and so she tries to turn around and look at him. He squeezes her harder as not to allow her to move and raises his right hand instead--the other one still holding Ginny by the waist.  
   
She gasps when she sees what he’s holding. A velvet red box with an engagement ring on it.  
   
“Get out of here,” scowls Ginny.  
   
This time Harry does allow Ginny to turn around so they can look into each other’s eyes for real, and see the broad smiles and true happiness in each other’s eyes, apart from a couple tears of joy too--a sight that makes them chuckle at the same time.  
   
“Is this for real?” demands her, looking alternatively between the ring and Harry.  
   
“You’re completely right--I’m sorry,” apologizes the man. He takes a step backwards and kneels on the ground, making it all the more official, prompting another chuckle from Ginny. “I believe I did pull out a ring and I’m on my knees. So? What’s it going to be, Weasley?”  
   
He doesn’t even get to finish that last question--all of a sudden Ginny’s knelt in front of him and she’s giving him a full, wet kiss. He breaks it all too soon to ask, to Ginny’s point of view, the dumbest question he could have uttered after proposing.  
   
“Is that a yes?”  
   
She just scowls and kisses him again--but once more, he cuts it short.  
   
“I do need to hear the word, Ginny,” he begs almost desperately.  
   
But she doesn’t say it, she doesn’t even say a thing, as she leans forward again to shut him up with a third kiss. Harry gives in easier this time, surrendering to the kiss, but in the end has to pull away for a third time.  
   
“Promise me you’ll at least say the words at the wedding.”  
   
Ginny bursts out laughing again and she stands, pulling Harry with him, grabbing the ring and putting it on without much of Harry’s assistance, even though he’d like to maintain formalities.  
   
“I will,” she says in the end. “I do. I do want to marry you, Harry.”  
   
Knowing that they’re finally at the same page, he nods and can’t contain his laughter either as they lean for yet another kiss--this one to settle the engagement they’ve just agreed on. It was about goddamn time, Harry reckons; they’ve lived all through Ron and Hermione’s wedding, then George and Angelina’s, before he could pluck up the courage to finally propose to the woman. And they’ve still yet to decide a date that works with Ginny’s practices and Harry’s job at Hogwarts. But they can worry about it all later on. For now he’s just trying to steady his hands and keep a PG-13 situation with Ginny bearing in mind her family--they might have given them some privacy, but they must be close by either way.


End file.
